


A Hero's Return

by Annie_Walker



Series: A Hero's Journey [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, BAMF Clint Barton, Dark Past, Domestic Avengers, Explicit Language, Gen, Homesickness, Identity Reveal, Love Triangles, Murder, Oscorp - Freeform, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Avengers, Protective Clint Barton, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Pepper Potts, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Reunions, Sokovia Accords, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-04-24 02:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 190,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie_Walker/pseuds/Annie_Walker
Summary: Peter Parker finally returns home after being on the run for almost a year. He's excited to live in the Avengers compound with his family and heroes, but everyone knows that it's not easy to adjust to a life in the public eye. Peter may think all is well and great, but his guardians know otherwise. Especially when a person from Peter's parents' past makes a return that certainly promises danger to the young hero.From the perspectives of Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Happy Hogan, Shuri and others!





	1. Happy Hogan

Happy led Peter Parker out of the school. It's been a long time since he's return to this side of town and yet, he remembered exactly where to park and find the kid. Seeing Peter, amongst his peers, threw Happy back to the times when the kid was just a kid, trying to squeeze his way into Tony's world. And now that he got through, it saddened Happy that the kid couldn't go back. 

If only they did better.

They passed a highly decorated locker. Peter slowed down, lingering a minute to take in the make-shift shrine of whoever that locker belonged to. Peter gazed at it for a few seconds until Happy tugged on him to continue.

"You know the kid or something?" Happy asked. 

Peter quizzically furrowed his brows. "It's my locker, Happy," he said. "My old one, at least."

Happy took another look. It was then he noticed the spider-man themes, the notes left for Peter and the  _Fuck Accords_  signs. "Oh."

"I don't know how I feel about it," Peter confessed, taking one last peak over his shoulder. "Makes me feel... like I'm dead."

"Well, you're not," Happy proudly stated. He was thankful the kid survived the nightmare Ross created. "And we _really_ need to hurry."

They exited the school building. The white, morning glare struck them hard across the face. Happy dropped his chin, looking at the cemented stairs as he headed in the direction of the car. "Hood up, kid," he advised, remembering the precautions Peter needed to take.

Peter flipped his hood over his head, barely concealing his face. They hurried down the steps, arriving close to the car when Happy heard a sharp gasp from his left.

Both Happy and Peter turned to the noise. A woman, with her young child, was rooted to the sidewalk. Her eyes were round and eager and wonder. The little one, a boy, stood right beside his mother, hand in hers. He didn't have a reaction at all. Kept looking up at them and then to his shocked mother. 

"You're... you're..." the mother struggled to find her words through the shock. "Oh my god! You're _Peter Parker_!"

The little boy reacted. He sucked in a gasp, eyes just as round as his mother's, peering right up into Parker's face. Peter stiffened, unsure what to do in the scenario as to whether confirm or deny it. 

Happy knew what to do. He protectively grabbed Peter, ready to put himself between Peter and the mother. Not that he believed she would attack him, but it was out of habit for guarding Tony for so many years. 

Yet, the mother beat him. She didn't grab Peter or shout at him. She did nothing like what most of Tony's fans did. Instead, she whipped out her phone. "Can you please take a photo with my son?" she asked, her hand a bit shaky. "He's a huge fan!"

Happy felt Peter hesitate. "Um... sure."

"Kid—" Happy began to dissuade him, ready to remind him that Tony didn't want him to be recognized yet.

"It's okay, Happy," Peter assured, stepping out of Happy's protective circle and went to the mother.

Happy groaned softly. Why did his clients always insist on a bodyguard if they were never going to utilize their protective services? It annoyed him. 

Peter squatted in front of the boy, smiling. "Hey, little man," he said. "What's your name?"

The boy was still. His mouth flopped open and eyes glued on Peter's face in stunned disbelief. The mother tried to get her son to respond, but ended up answering on his behalf. "His name is Mateo," she said to Peter. "And I swear, he's usually chatty."

"It's okay," Peter said and turned back to Mateo, the boy. "Hi, Mateo! I'm Peter. Your mom wants us to take a picture together. You want that?"

The boy finally moved. He slowly nodded his head. 

"Great," Peter said and soon enough, the boy was in Peter's arms, listening to the mother's instructions to get the best lightening for her camera. 

Happy sunk against the car, watching it with exaggerated annoyance. The boy couldn't stop looking at Peter. No matter how many times his mother called for him to look at her for the picture, the kid never turned his head away from Peter. Eventually, the mother gave up and took two, quick photographs of Peter and Mateo. One of Peter smiling and the other of Peter helping Mateo reenact his Spider-man webbing pose. 

The mother was so thankful when Peter returned her child to her. "Thank you!" she told Peter. "We are so happy for you to be here again. Everyone in Queens supports you. You're a hero."

Peter's cheeks reddened. "Thank you."

Happy tapped on the car door, garnering Peter's attention. "Come on, kid," he said. "We gotta go."

Peter said his goodbyes and went to the car. Happy closed the car door and turned to the mother and child, who still hadn't left the steps of Midtown yet. "Hey, listen," Happy addressed her, causing the mother to flinch in surprise that he was talking to her. "You can't upload those photos. Not yet. Wait for later on in the day, okay?"

The mother was surprised. "What? Why?"  

"Because no one is supposed to know he's here."

The mother understood. "All right. I'll hold off."

"Thanks."

Happy turned back to the car and got into the driver's seat. He pulled out and away from the school and, the mother and child. 

Peter, sitting in the back, scooted to the edge of his seat. "Hey... why did you ask her to hold off posting those photos?"

"Because Mr. Stark doesn't want word out until after the press conference," Happy answered, looking in the rearview mirror to see the kid. "You know this."

He should have at least. Didn't anyone brief him? 

"Does it matter though?" Peter questioned. "The press thing is today."

"Still. Rules."

Peter slunk to the back of his seat. His eyes flickered to the familiar background of his former neighborhood. Happy watched him in the rearview mirror. "What are you thinking about?"

"Home," Peter answered. "How much has changed and how much hasn't."

Happy looked around. He couldn't tell. It all looked the same. "What about your friends? Are they the same?"

The kid nodded. "Yeah. More or less."

"Then that is all that matters," Happy said. "As long as they don't change for the worse, then you're pretty lucky."

Peter shrugged, remaining quiet for a moment. "Hey, Happy?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"I missed you.”

Happy snorted. “Oh, come on, kid. You don’t have to say that.”

“It’s true,” Peter avowed. “I was so used to texting you every day. And then… I couldn’t. I’m… it’s just good to sit in the back of the car again and talk with you.”

Happy checked the mirror again, spying Peter in the back seat. For a moment, it was like they were back to the time Happy drove him to the airport, ready to take him on his first Avenger mission. Peter was excited, videotaping everything and making weird sound effects. An excitable child wanting to grow up fast and be amongst his heroes. He thought little of the consequences of what it all meant even when him and Tony tried their damnest to keep him young and innocent. Away from all the madness the Avengers entailed. But Peter Parker was not one to be afraid to grow up. Especially, when he lived in a world that made children grow up faster than they should.

A year ago, Peter Parker was a kid. Excitable, bright and eager to move up in the world.

Now, Peter Parker was a young man, staring at the passing scene with a doe-eyed melancholy. His home coming and going. A boy forced out of his childhood long before ready. Blissful to relive old memories of sitting in the back seat after leaving decathlon practice, heading off to meet up with Tony or simply to go home. Like they did every Friday before Ross betrayed them.

Happy breathed. “Yeah… it’s good to talk to you again too.”

They arrived back at the compound in a good hour time. Peter was still new and unsure where to go; therefore, opted to follow Happy around until he recognized something. At least, that was what Happy hoped as he needed to speak to Tony about... delicate matters that weren't for Peter's ears. 

Unfortunately, they happened to run straight into Tony and Rhodey upon entering the compound. 

"You're back! How was it?" Tony asked Peter. 

"It was good," Peter responded, perking up a bit since the drive out of Queens. "Great to see my friends and teammates again."

"And they recognized you?" teased Tony.

"Not at first. It was a bit awkward, but then they remembered."

"I imagined it was more out of shock than failure to recognize," Rhodey spoke up.

Peter conceded to his wisdom with a tilt of his head. "Yeah. Probably."

"Either way, it's good that you got to see them," Tony said, clearly driving the conversation to another topic. "Now, we need to get this ball rolling. You?” He pointed to Peter. “Change into better attire."

Peter crinkled his nose. "You mean like... a suit and tie?" he asked. "Because I don't have any of those. At least, not yet anyway. Aunt May said we'll go shopping for more clothes later, but—"

"No, kid, no," Tony said, waving Peter's concerns aside. "You can wear whatever you want. Just... not something that looks like you put on in five seconds."

Peter glanced down at his jeans, shirt and jacket. "What do you mean? I wore this all the time at school."

"This isn't school. This is a press conference that we are trying to sell to the public," Tony reminded him.

"Sell?"

"Ask your aunt, buckaroo," Tony nudged his head in the direction of the apartments. "Now, hop to! You have less than thirty minutes."

Peter hurried off in the direction Tony gestured to. Once he disappeared though another hallway, Happy relaxed his guard. "Hey, um, Boss?"

Tony directed his full attention to Happy. All the smiles gone, retaken by a serious expression. "Did you drop off the documents?"

"I did. Handed them personally to Everett."

"Everett? Why are you calling him that?" Tony asked.

"That's his name."

"I thought we decided to call him Big E?" 

"No—you call him that. Everyone calls him Everett."

"Or Agent Ross," Rhodey added, but Tony scoffed.

Tony scoffed. "Yeah, I'm never going to call him by his last name," he remarked, coarsely. "And I only ever call one person 'Agent'."

Happy knew he meant Phil Coulson. The man who admired all of the Avengers and died for his effort to stop Loki. He was the man who managed to bring the team together. It was both unfortunate and sad that Coulson didn't live long enough to witness the Avengers form. He would have been proud—somewhat.

"Anyway, yeah, I handed him what we procured," Happy carried on. "He said he'll go through it and get back to us this weekend."

"This weekend? That fast?" Tony said, impressed. "Guess he's not a family man."

"Not everyone are parents, Tony," said Rhodey, adjusting his stance to accommodate his braces. "Neither are you... yet."

Tony exhaled. "I feel like one already with all the mayhem going around," he commented. "Jesus—I'm too afraid when another one is added to the mix."

"Well, hopefully, the kid will be more like Pepper than you," Rhodey jested as he moved away from the group. "I have to get going. Gotta get my proper shoes on for the conference. Can’t introduce the kid sitting down."

Tony and Happy said their goodbyes to Rhodey before heading up to the apartment complex of the compound. Normally, Pepper prepped the beginning of press conferences, but after the doctor’s second, stern lecture about bedrest, Pepper had to pass her mantle to Rhodey. Pepper wasn’t too pleased, but she did as the doctor instructed and remained in bed. Probably a nervous wreck, wondering how Tony was going to ruin it.

“Hey Boss,” Happy said as he and Tony shared an elevator. “I just want to let you know that we ran into a problem outside the school.”

Tony wrangled up a brow. “Oh?”

“Some woman and her child spotted Peter and… the kid beat me to it,” Happy explained. “He allowed them to take a few photographs with him. I tried to get the kid away—”

Tony’s face slacked, relaxed. “Shit, Happy,” he said, whistling low. “I thought you were going to tell me something much worse. Just a random mother and child asked for a photo?”

Happy nodded. “I asked her not to post until later in the day, but I don’t know if she will follow through with it. Anyway, wanted to give you the heads up.”

Tony was amused. “Well, lucky them. First ones to get a photo-op with Parker,” he joked, despite that Happy viewed it as a serious offense. “Don’t worry about it Happy. Won’t change anything. And nothing bad happened, right?”

“No, nothing bad.”

“Then, it’s fine,” Tony brushed off the concerns with a flick of his hand. “I’m sure Underoos made their day. But thanks for letting me know about it. I knew I could count on you to look after him.”

“I’m not the kid’s babysitter,” Happy reminded Tony. He graduated from that position a long time ago.

But the sly look on Tony’s face gave Happy pause. “Wait… Tony—”

“We’ll talk more on it later,” Tony responded as the elevator doors parted and Tony stepped out.

Happy chased after him. “No—I’m not his babysitter. We talked about this. I’m in management now. Asset manager. _Tony_!”

Tony ignored Happy, entering the apartment complex lobby where May and Peter waited for them. The kid changed outfits, wearing a plain button shirt and a dark, navy sweater over it. May was trying to fix a strand of hair that refused to be brushed back, staying in a somewhat, curled position near his forehead.

Tony clapped his hands together, catching May off guard. Peter didn't even flinch. "You ready?" he asked, checking Peter over his sunglasses, deciding if he needed a wardrobe change or not.

Happy didn't see anything wrong with the outfit. It looked like something Peter would wear and it made him appear geeky and innocent. All the things they wanted to sell to the public. Which wasn’t too hard considering Peter was exactly those traits.

Peter nodded, but there was a pause that signaled his apprehension about it. Happy wasn't surprised. While Tony glorified his press conference with abrasive, outlandish behaviors and speeches, Peter wasn't the type to take the spotlight. He preferred the shadows.

May gently squeezed the kid's shoulder. "It'll be okay, Peter," she reassured him. "I’ll be with you."

"And if you don't want to answer a question, you don't have to," added Tony. "I hardly ever answer questions to journalists. I mostly antagonize them."

May shot Tony a stern look. "But Peter won't do that," she argued before turning back to Peter. "Just be you."

Peter nodded, but gulped. "Yeah. Just gotta be me. I can do this."

"That's the spirit," Tony said, patting Peter on the shoulder. "Again, we will all be there with you. We're not sending you out to the wolves on your own. Happy here," Tony jerked his head to Happy, "will keep you safe. He's had  _tons_ of experiences in these matters."

He did and he hoped none of them were as bad as Tony's. "Don't worry, kid," Happy said to Peter. "Whenever you want to go, just signal me and I'll get you out of there."

Peter nodded again, but his fingers twisted the ring on his finger. May pulled him into a half-hug to be his support as they headed off to the press conference on the other side of the compound. Tony went over etiquettes on how press conferences go, which Happy found entertaining considering that Tony always tossed etiquette out the window during his press conferences. But Tony was adamant that Peter followed all the etiquettes. Do not give more than asked. Do not let your emotion (specifically anger) get the better of him. Do not call on reporters—Rhodey would do that for him. 

"And most importantly," Tony said as they reached the doors where all the unbeknownst reporters waited, "do not mention anything about who or where you were in the past year."

Peter nodded. He looked sickly now, skin palled and breathing a little harder than normal. He kept wringing his hands, glancing from the door to Tony to May to Happy and then back to the door. "Yeah, okay."

Tony planted his feet between the door and Peter. He took the kid by the shoulders and gave him long look. "I know it's scary. The first one always is and it always sucks," he counselled Peter. "Now—this is scheduled to last an hour, but you can always cut it short. Mine typically last ten minutes. Once it lasted only a minute.

"The point is... you are in control," Tony said to the kid. "You decide what questions you want to answer and when to end it. Got it?"

Peter nodded, a bit firmer than last time. 

"Good," Tony said with vast relief, and his hands slipped off Peter's shoulders. "Ready when you are, Crockett."

May gave her nephew another reassuring squeeze. “You got this,” she said. “Think of it as practice for those college interviews.”

“Oh—he doesn’t have to worry about that,” Tony assured them. “I have a lot of pull at MIT. Accept him on the spot. He’ll be great there.”

May and Peter both stared at him. Peter—a bit humored. May… not so much.

“Peter will be great anywhere,” May said through her forced smile. But, we can talk about it all later.”

“Like when I’m closer to graduation?” Peter spoke up, showing more discomfort at the talk about colleges than the conferences.

“Sure,” Tony answered, catching the hint. “First things first, obviously. So—whenever you’re ready.”

Peter inhaled deeply. "Ready."

Tony wheeled to Happy. "Um... Happy?"

Happy drew himself up, preparing his job to protect Peter. He headed to the front of the door and gave it a few taps. The door cracked open and Rhodey stuck his head out. "Hey, where have you been? These journalists are getting angsty. Some of them are threatening to leave,” he claimed. He glanced at everyone’s faces. “Are we all good?”

Happy affirmed. "Yeah, he's ready to get this over with."

"Alright," Rhodey said, propping the door open as he turned his back to them. He stood up next to a podium. "Ladies and gentleman, I’m proud to introduce—Mr. Peter Parker."


	2. Christine Everhart

Christine Everhart tapped her pen against her notepad. Eyes wandering amongst the crowded room, she checked out every reporter with critical judgment. She spotted rivals and friends alike, all anxiously waiting for whatever Stark wanted to reveal. Knowing him, it was probably some kind of propaganda to distract the news from whatever they were doing in the shadows. 

Maybe it was the birth of his love child. After all, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts weren't married. Not according to any court records. The world was quite aware of Pepper's pregnancy despite her pathetic attempts to hide it. When the newsroom stopped talking about Peter Parker, they brought up Tony Stark's bastard. Multiple pools were going on around the office, everyone making bets on the gender and name. Christine scoffed at the profound interest of Stark's baby. In fact, she felt sorry for the baby. Its father was Tony Stark—enough said! That child would grow up damaged. Like Stark.

She exhaled exasperatedly. Every Stark press conference always started late. Stark was never one to arrive on time. Everyone waited on him. Rude and annoying.

Colonel James Rhodes came out from the double doors. Dressed in suit jacket and dark trousers—probably to cover up his disability—he approached the podium and began the normal, introductions. All the reporters bent their neck and scribbled in their notepads with some photographers flashing the colonel.

Christine did nothing. Only kept her pencil tapping away.

She brushed her blonde hair off her neck. The warm climate they had this autumn was insufferable. Even air conditioners couldn't keep up. The room itself was comfortable, but with a packed room, it didn't make it too much better.

Colonel Rhodes finished his welcome statement and turned to reminding the press of rules when the conference began. Christine rolled her eyes. Of course! Rhodes was postponing, which meant Stark was late. Again. Per usual. Her phone  _ping_  an alert. She pulled out her phone and unlocked it. The screen read an alert in regards to Peter Parker. Christine swiped to open and a picture of Peter Parker appeared on her screen. He was holding a child, both doing some sort of imitation of an action move. And it was outside of a building. A school building. 

Holy fuck! That's Midtown!

Christine scrolled, reading the title and small blurb. It appeared the picture was taken... this morning!

That meant...

The sound of doors propped open distracted her from the phone. It appeared everyone else became more animated than usual, some inching up out of their seats. Christine snapped at her cameraman. 

"Get up to the front!" she hissed, shoving him up so that he could get the picture. 

Colonel Rhodes appeared back at the podium (when did he leave?) and spoke into the microphone. "Ladies and gentleman, I'm proud to introduce—Mr. Peter Parker."

The whole room surged. Christine put up her elbows, blocking anyone's attempt to cut her off. As she craned her neck over the shoulders of another, she spotted a boy, dressed in a dark sweater and jeans, move down the table that was set up in front. He didn't look at the reporters at all. He stared mostly at the table, trying to decide where to sit. Tony Stark came behind him, tapping the kid's shoulder and directing him in the center chair. Stark pulled the chair out and Peter took his seat. 

Others followed suit, Tony sat on Peter's right and a woman with gorgeous red hair sat on the other side of the kid. She must be May Parker, the mysterious, supposedly ill-health aunt of Peter Parker. She looked way younger than Christine believed. She didn’t even  _look_ sick. Happy Hogan also joined the circus. He stood in the back not too far from Peter, playing the same role as he always did. The only person missing was Pepper Potts.

People shouted at Peter, calling his name to get his attention. Peter didn't respond to them. He kept his gaze elsewhere, almost anywhere but at the sea of lights and faces. Stark was the opposite. He stared straight ahead, almost glowering at the reporters in a challenging manner. He wore his normal attire of casual business with a pair of sunglasses, acting like a young punk. An act he should have retired decades ago in her opinion.

Colonel Rhodes called for attention, reminding everyone of the procedure they went over earlier. Immediately, hands flew up on the air. Colonel Rhodes pointed to a woman in a grey smart suit to start off the conference.

“Mr. Parker?” the woman’s voice barely made it through the clicking of cameras.

But, Peter Parker heard her. He lifted his head, eyes directed to the woman. He appeared attentive, leaning into the table a bit.

The woman continued. “Anne Burhall of  _The New Yorker_ ,” said Anne. “First—I would like welcome you back to New York.”

Peter adjusted his microphone. “Uh, thank you.”

“And, second, what have you been doing?” Anne asked. “You were gone for eleven months. What were you doing in that time?”

“Er… traveling.”

That garnered a few laughs, but Peter cheeks tinged red. He stuttered as he tried to change his response. “Uh, I mean, I was away. And, um,” he tried to think of more words. “I kind of spent my time moving from one place to the next.”

Christine watched Tony give Peter reassuring pat on his arm. Peter released a steady breath, seemingly trying to calm himself down.

Colonel Rhodes called on another person.

“Robbie Robertson of  _The Daily Bugle_ ,” introduced a tall, African American. He wore no suit, opting to wear a black vest with a button shirt. “As Anne said, welcome home. I imagine this has been a horrible experience that you want to put behind you, but out of curiosity, why did you not sign the Sokovia Accords?”

Christine noticed the slight tension in the kid’s arm. His fingers fiddled with a ring on his hand.

“Uh… why I didn’t sign them,” Peter started, flicking a glance to Tony. Stark gave him a small nod. “To, uh, be honest, I didn’t think I needed to. I wasn’t an Avenger. I thought only Avengers had to sign them.”

Hands shot back up and then all fell down when another voice boomed out from the crowd.

“James Attics of  _CNN_ ,” announced James, sounding as boastful and prestigious. “You’re not an Avenger? Were you not involved in the Berlin incident back in—”

“I-I was,” Peter answered. “But, I came more as a helper. Not a fighter. Originally. It… was complicated.”

Like all things with Stark and the Avengers. Too many knots to undo in order to get to the real truth.

Another reporter took over for Attics. “Emily Burns of  _The New York Times_ ,” she began. “When did you first become Spider-man? There are video recordings of your activities as early as 2015. When did you actually develop these powers? Or were you born with them?”

“I, um… I think I am going to have to pass on that one,” Peter said. “Sorry.”

“But—”

“Moving on,” Colonel Rhodes drowned out Emily’s follow-up. He called on another reporter, who asked the kid about who he was with on his “travels”.

Peter, again, refused to answer. On both times, Stark neither disciplined nor encouraged the kid’s responses. Christine took notes. She scrutinized every single detail, trying to find the best question to ask as everyone else took the easy questions that could have been answered in a statement piece. 

She noted the kid's fidgeting again, playing with a ring on his finger as he answered more bland questions. Christine tried to get a closer look at it, but the boy's hand kept blocking it from view through his nervous fumbling.

It was clear Peter Parker didn't want to be here. Stark forced him. That was clear by not only the boy's uncomfortableness, but Stark's casual attitude, acting parental to the boy. A ploy to shed his old image of a playboy asshole. He had Parker dressed in boy-next-door attire rather than in a suit and jacket, to give the kid a more agreeable appearance to sway them. An opportunity to make the journalists see Peter Parker as a kid and not the super-hero, Spider-Man. 

Christine wasn’t a fool. She knew Stark’s manipulations well enough to not be tricked. That was why her article was going to be significantly different than everyone else’s in the room. While everyone reported what Tony Stark wanted them to report, Christine was going to report on the serious aspects of Peter’s ordeal.

Starting with her first question.

Christine raised her hand. She got called. She stood up, making sure Tony Stark saw her in the sea of reporters. He did. His expression hardly changed, but she knew he noticed her.

“Christine Everhart of  _WHiH World News_ ,” she spoke with precision and elegance, which grabbed people’s attention. Exactly what she wanted. However, she kept her focus on the kid. “Mr. Parker, you made it very clear that Mr. Stark initiated you into the Avengers. Why do you still associate yourself with a man who has constantly demonstrated irresponsibility and has put you and your aunt through a horrible ordeal?"

She pressed her lips together to hide the growing smirk of retribution when she witnessed Tony scowl. Peter Parker screwed his face into a muddled expression, a bit baffled by the question.

"I don't blame Mr. Stark, if that is what you wanted to know," Peter responded. "If anything, he did his best to keep me out."

"So you're saying," Christine yelled loud enough to distort Rhodes' voice so that she remained heard, "you do not fault Stark for inducting you—a minor child—into the Avengers?"

"I'm not an Avenger."

"Nonetheless, he involved a minor child in dangerous and illegal business at the time," Christine persisted and Peter drew in his shoulders, slinking back in his seat. "Your induction into Avenger's business is the reason you got on Secretary Ross's radar, which led to the attack on Midtown. Do you not consider that irresponsible? An adult dragging a child into such—"

"Ms. Everhart," Tony Stark interrupted as he signaled the kid to cease speaking. “As persistent as ever when it comes to me. You know you didn’t have to come all the way up here. If you have any questions for _me_ —talk to my lawyers.”

Tony then snapped his fingers to some random individual in the front row, ceasing her line of questioning. “You—ask your question.”

The male journalist was young and seemingly inexperience. He wasn’t ready at all when Stark unceremoniously picked up to speak up. His surprise showed when he fumbled through his notepad, trying to find whatever note he wrote down. “Um… yeah, er… Jonah Crawford of _The Daily Mail_ ,” he muttered as he stopped fidgeting with his notepad. “What can you tell us about the incident at the school? Do you remember it?”

The kid breathed, brushing his loose hair back with his fingers. “Um, yeah… I, er, I remember,” Peter answered. He twisted the ring. He blinked. “I remember… sensing danger. And there was a noise. We already knew something was wrong.”

The kid dropped his head a bit, fingers pinched into his palm. “I, uh, I told Mr. Harrington to not open the door, but it was too late,” The kid blinked and rubbed his eyes with his hand. “My… my classmates. They were, um, screaming. People running. I, um…”

Christine peered at the kid. His breathing got heavier. Chest expanding more and more. His fingers twitched, flexing a bit as if trying to ground himself. And he kept blinking. More than normal. He squinted his eyes, nose scrunched as he troubled over finding his voice.

Stark tilted his head, examining the kid over his sunglasses with concern. Expeditiously, Stark yanked off his sunglasses and slammed them over Peter’s eyes. He was already out of his chair, clamping his hands shut over Peter’s ears when he barked out commands.

An uproar of commotion happened. Happy Hogan shot up to Stark at once. Without even a word passing between them, Happy swiftly lifted Peter out of his seat and cradled him like a bride. Stark kept speaking, addressing the aunt as she panicked over her nephew.

Christine couldn’t hear a word. She tried to nudge her way up front, but the crowd of reporters already seized forward, trying to capture any hints as to what was happening. She got pushed, squeezed and elbowed in her struggle to get closer. To no avail, she never heard a single word that transpired.

Stark was already at the doors, throwing his last words to Colonel Rhodes before hurrying out the double doors that Peter, Happy and the aunt already exited from. Two guards closed and sealed the doors. Colonel Rhodes returned to the podium as people shouted for an explanation.

“That is the conclusion of this press conferences. Thank you,” finished Colonel Rhodes as he too stepped away and disappeared through those same, guarded double doors.

As everyone else groaned, getting up from their seats to share notes or swap theories as to what happened to Parker, Christine picked up her bag and strode out with a smile on her face. She got exactly what she needed.

* * *

Christine rapped her knuckles against her boss’s office before letting herself enter. Bob Hollander was like all other men in media. Big, gray and balding. He acted tough, with all his barks and grunts, but that was all to him. When confronted, he simply backed down and cursed her.

So, Bob Hollander already poured himself two fingers of scotch when she walked in. “Guessing the conference went well?”

Christine stopped in front of his desk. “You saw the news?”

Bob nodded. “Who hasn’t?” he took a drought. “Got any pictures?”

“Ramsey is getting them,” Christine said, wanting to get the point of why _she_ was in his office.

But, Bob wasn’t overly interested at the moment. “What did he look like?”

“He looked like a kid,” Christine brushed his ramblings aside. “Look—I have a great news piece for us.”

Bob sighed, but signaled her to continue.

“All the other media sources are going to report on Mr. Parker’s homecoming,” Christine began her enticement, “but instead of following everyone else, we report on something with a bit more gravitas to it.”

“Like?”

“Well, in the conference, Mr. Parker suffered from some kind of scare. Like a panic attack,” she explained to her boss. “Kids like Parker don’t belong in that world and the episode at the press conference just proves the point.

“So, I was thinking that rather than report on the kid’s homecoming, we do an investigative report on the trauma Parker suffered from being involved in the Avengers,” Christine suggested. “The Avengers need to be held accountable for their part in that whole ordeal! Particularly Stark since he initiated the kid into their mess.

“Imagine—okay? An in-depth story on how the Avengers psychologically damaged an innocent kid,” Christine already pictured millions of people tuning in to watch her. “This will open big doors to discussions on how what type of influences the Avengers have on our society and children.”

Christine took a breath and flicked a strand of her hair back. “So—what do you think?”

Bob said nothing. He stared, but Christine saw the inner clicking of clogs working as the idea floated in his head. After a minute, he downed the last of the scotch in his glass. “No.”

Christine’s mouth dropped. “No?”

“We aren’t going to glamourize a kid’s trauma for your personal vendetta, Everhart.”

Christine was taken aback. “Personal vendetta?” she repeated, offended. “Mr. Hollander, I will have you know that all my reports are conducted through volumes of research, data and interviews. I don’t create fake news to justify my beliefs.”

“No, but you sure as hell twist them,” Bob grunted, he got off his chair and walked around his desk. “Look—the public adores the kid. Parading his trauma will only make you look callous. And using Parker’s trauma as a way to blame the very group of people that got him out of that mess, won't get us any more viewers. Hell, we will almost sound like we support Ross! Then we would lose viewers. Maybe even advertisers?” Bob sighed against his desk. “And we can’t have that. I’m sure you enjoy your paycheck, correct?”

Christine was flabbergasted at what she heard. “I thought you hired me because of my persistence to uncover the truth? Not to kiss whosever’s ass?”

“I did, but that doesn’t mean I am giving you full rein to do whatever the shit you want,” Bob retorted. “Everyone knows you fucked Tony Stark years ago. That’s common knowledge. We also know that you hate his guts. Again—common knowledge.”

Christine felt her cheeks get warm. True, rumors floated carelessly about from newsroom to newsroom about her one-night stand. Her interaction with Stark never helped dismiss that rumor. It’s no wonder they all found the rumor to be fact rather than false.

Bob continued speaking, arms crossed over his round, scotch belly. “So—my answer is no. You’re not going to exploit the kid’s trauma for your vengeance, got it?”

Christine numbly nodded.

“Vocal, Everhart!”

“Yes, sir,” Christine said. “I understand. I won’t report it.”

Bob nodded in affirmation. “Good—now, go meet up with Will. Go over the talking points. And I want a nice, clean version of the press conference.”

Christine clenched her teeth, but obeyed Bob’s ruling. She marched out of his office, her heels clicking in a crescendo of anger as she headed to her own, cramped office. She slammed her door closed and let out a little scream.

A knock at door interrupted her rampage. “Hey there, Everhart,” said Will Adams, her co-anchor. “How did the press conference go?”

“Fuck you,” was all Christine said before slamming her office door in Will’s face.

That was a bit satisfying. More than she thought it would be. Christine took a deep breath. This wasn’t the end of the world. There were millions of other things she could nail Stark for. After all, a man like Stark was full of skeletons. Eventually, she’ll dig one up. Maybe not now, but soon.

And that’s what she told herself as she readied for the rest of the day.


	3. May Parker

"He suffers from PTSD," Doctor Gina Atwater revealed to May and Tony Stark.

May sharply inhaled, taking in the announcement with distressed expectance. It was not unusual considering everything Peter went through since the day of the Midtown attack. She heard many children had to see psychiatrists to help them recover. Mrs. Leeds even confirmed that Ned went to see a therapist. Why May never suspected Peter needed to see one was what bothered her most. Did she truly think it was over? 

Doctor Atwater continued. "I conducted a CPSS and Mr. Parker scored a twenty-one. Average for those who suffer from PTSD."

Tony blew out a stream of air. "Okay. What's your recommendation, doctor? Does he need to be medicated? Or—"

“Medication might do little considering Mr. Parker's genetic make-up," Doctor Atwater said, flipping through Peter's file. "I do believe talking to someone will help him. I could suggest a child psychiatrist for you, if you like?”

Tony and Doctor Atwater turned to May as one. Tony spoke. "What do you think?"

What did she think? She thought this was all madness! She wanted it to go away! She wanted her old life back with Peter as a happy, normal kid rather than the celebrated, traumatized kid who was alone in his doctor's room. But, what could she do? She had no power to change that fate. Only the power to remedy those mistakes and help her nephew carry on with his life.

May took off her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. "I'll do whatever you suggest," May said to Doctor Atwater. "Whatever we need to do. I want him to get better."

Doctor Atwater affirmed with a nod. "I'll make a call."

Tony helped May out of her seat. Doctor Atwater promised to send May more information on children suffering from PTSD to help her understand what Peter was going through. May thanked her and walked out of the office with Tony at her side. 

As they headed toward Peter's room, Tony went into more detail on Peter's episode. He explained that Peter's already heightened senses would overwhelm him if he was experiencing any extreme stress. Like most humans who have anxiety, their senses are dialed a bit more and in Peter's case, his dialed far too much for him to handle. Therefore, Tony did his best to dilute the senses with the sunglasses and noise-canceling headphones.

“How do you know this already?" May asked, silently berating herself for not knowing what to do. She was his aunt! She should know how to take care of her nephew like she used to do when he was younger. "How did you know what to do?”

“Barton told me," Tony simply answered. "Gave me instructions on what to do if it ever occurred. I expected it might happen after his visit to the school, so I was looking for the signs throughout the conference.”

And now May knew too. She would be able to help Peter next time he suffers from another episode of PTSD. She tucked her arms around her. "Well, thank you," she said. "For helping him."

“Always and look, we've all been there," Tony said as a way to comfort her. It didn't. "I think every Avenger at one point sought counseling. I know I did. Granted, it wasn't with an actual psychiatrist, but still a doctor. The point I am making is that Peter will overcome this. Time and talk will help him heal.”

Tony paused, stress sagging his face. "I know it's not what you want to hear," he said, "but it's the truth. Peter's strong. He can get through this.” He jabbed a thumb randomly behind him. “My door is open. So is Pepper's and Rhodey's. He's welcome to talk to anyone of us. Whenever he wants. Our doors are open. For you as well."

“Thanks," May said, blinking more than she should to keep tears from spilling out. "I'll let him know that.”

“Good," Tony said before jerking his head to the other end of the hallway. "I'm going to check in with Pepper. She's probably already writing up a statement to keep the press from tearing all of this to pieces.”

Tony bid her farewell, leaving May with the privacy she wanted with Peter. She entered his hospital room, finding Peter still on the hospital cot. Although she couldn't see through the sunglasses, she imagined Peter's eyes focused on the bland ceiling above him. Headphones were still clasped to his ears, tuning out all sounds. He didn't hear or see her coming until she was a feet away from the bed. 

Peter took off the sunglasses and pulled the headphones down. “I'm sorry, Aunt May.”

May was taken aback. "For what? You didn't do anything wrong."

“Feels like I did.”

“You didn't," May reassured him, brushing his hair back like she used to when he was a child, sick with the flu. "How're you feeling?”

“A little better," Peter adjusted himself on the bed, sitting further upright than completely on his back. "At least, I can see better. The lights aren't as bright anymore.”

"That's good," May said with a smile.

“Is Tony upset?" Peter asked. "You know... for ruining the press conference?”

“He better not," May commented, but she knew Tony Stark wasn't mad at all. Concerned, but not angry.

Peter’s lips dipped. “Wait… is he? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

"Peter, no one's mad at you. Not even Iron Man.”

Her reassurance did little to keep Peter from looking unsettled. “Will I have to do the press conference again?” Peter asked.

"Only if you want to," May said as she would back whatever Peter wanted to do.

Peter immediately shook his head. "I don't."

“Then you are officially done," May concluded, smiling at him. "You did your time.”

Peter lightly chuckled at that. "Yeah, I guess I did."

Once Peter felt a little more better, May got him discharged from the medical wing and they headed back to their apartment together. May made a quick batch of pasta for Peter, which he scarfed in seconds. And then he went back into his room, changing out of his clothes into something more relaxed as he tinkered with his robotic arm in his bedroom. 

May let him do whatever he wanted for the rest of the day. Doctor Atwater kept her promise and sent her a small binder of information on PTSD. May spent her afternoon reviewing it, reading over cases and symptoms and treatments and among other tidbits that may be useful for her.

Doctor Atwater also sent her the profile of the child psychiatrist she suggested. May reviewed the man's credentials and his medical history. Dr. Leonard Skivorski, Jr. seemed well versed in child psychiatry and worked with multiple PTSD patients from veterans of war to the terror that occurred in New York years ago. May researched further until she felt completely comfortable with the idea of Peter being in the same room as the doctor. He seemed like a good fit, but only Peter could tell her if he was a good choice.

It was dinner time that May decided to get Peter's input on the idea. They were scraping their plates, eating the last bit of chicken and potatoes. Peter was finishing up his third plate, contemplating on finishing the last of the bowl, when May got the courage to ask him.

“Peter?" May began, pushing her empty plate aside as she folded her arms on the table. "I wanted to run something by you.”

Peter swallowed a piece of chicken. "Yeah? What is it?"

“Tony and I talked a little with the doctor and we think it may be a good idea that you visit a psychiatrist maybe once a week?”

Peter looked ruffled. "A psychiatrist?" he muttered in a surprised tone as he placed his fork down. "You think I need to see one?"

“I just... I want to let you know that you have options," May corrected in hopes not to offend him. "Lots of people struggle after witnessing something traumatic. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I'm not ashamed.”

“So... you'll consider seeing a psychiatrist?”

Peter's mouth squished in the corner as he pondered the idea. "I... I don't know."

May's heart dropped. "No one thinks you’re weak, sweetie,” she said. “Tony told me he spoke to a doctor as well when he struggled through his PTSD.”

Peter’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah, but it only happened once,” he countered. “I don’t have it all the time. I don’t go crazy.”

“I’m not saying that you go crazy,” May assured him. “I’m saying it because I am concerned about you. You got me worried at the press conference and I don’t like seeing you in pain.

“If seeing a psychiatrist can help, then I am willing to give it a shot,” May said in her final bid to get Peter to agree with the idea of seeing a professional psychiatrist. “But, it is up to you. I’m not going to force you to see one, but I think it will do you a lot of good.”

May waited, watching Peter mull over her words as he decided on an answer. She knew Peter thought she doubted his capability and mental strength, but May didn’t. In fact, she always considered sending him to see a psychiatrist since Ben died. She thought it was a good idea, but the cost made it impossible for her to schedule a session. But, with Tony Stark as a benefactor, maybe Peter can finally get the help he needed for all of trauma he experienced in his life. Starting with the sudden abandonment upon the death of his parents at an early age.

Unfortunately, Peter wasn’t on the same wavelength as her. He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s necessary, Aunt May,” he claimed. “I mean… one incident doesn’t require medical help. And, I never needed it before. Not with Uncle Ben or my parents. It was nothing. It was just nerves more than PTSD. You know how much I hate public speaking. That and talking about the attack, which I haven’t ever done… it’s nothing. Really. I’m fine. I don’t need to see a psychiatrist.”

Peter pulled the bowl close and scooped the last crumbles of dinner onto his plate. He picked up his fork to return to his dinner, shoving the last bits of potatoes in his mouth to quench his constantly hungry state. Meanwhile, May slumped in her seat, watching Peter continued as if life was back to normal in Queens.

* * *

May curled up in the sofa chair, watching over her sleeping nephew. Peter was unaware that she snuck into his room, which was great as May didn’t want him to know that she did. The first night Peter returned home, May slept on the chair in Peter's room. She feared that if she closed her eyes, he would be gone again and wanted to stay in the room to check on him if needed.

However, this night, she camped out in his bedroom on Doctor Atwater’s advice. She wanted May to watch him sleep, see if he experienced any sleep terrors, nightmares or sleep-walking. Any signs of physical symptoms of PTSD. In the past three hours since Peter went to be, he’s slept comfortably. No sounds or stirs.

May stayed vigilant though, sacrificing her good sleep for the sake of her nephew. She spent the time reading over the news. The press released their versions of the press conference. Many wrote about Peter's bashful, but polite nature, describing him as a normal teenager. And all of them reported on the episode, taking pictures of him either being lifted out of his seat by Happy Hogan or Tony cupping his ears.

There weren’t any pictures of her and Peter. Sometimes her arm came into the frame or a strand of her red hair could be seen near the border, but most of the pictures focused on Peter or on Peter and Tony Stark. 

Videos were posted of news anchors discussing the homecoming, along with their debate on Peter's PTSD. Almost all were sympathetic to Peter's distress. A lot of them brought on doctors to their shows, asking them questions about Peter’s mental health and advice. They all agreed that he needed to see a psychiatrist.

“ _Anyone who is put in a situation like that does not come out unscathed,”_ _said Dr._ Anthony Ludgate Druid. “ _A kid like Parker, even with superpowers, makes the situation even worse because he may believe that it’s his fault. In his mind, he should have been able to protect his classmates from this attack because he’s super-powered. And the fact that he couldn’t, well… it will make him doubt himself and add more self-blame.”_

May sighed, rubbing the back of her neck as she watched more and more doctors agree with type of psyche Peter may be experiencing from his return to New York. It made May nervous. All of these traits all lead to destructive behavior if he didn’t get the necessary help that he needed.

It was close to around two in the morning that Peter shifted. May became alert in an instant. She watched as Peter nestled in his blankets, murmuring gibberish underneath his breath. His legs twitched a bit as he flopped his head around the pillow.

His gibberish became clearer and May listened. It was still a bit nonsense, but she recognized a few words. He mentioned Ned’s name. Tony’s. Her name. And MJ. He said her name a couple of times.

May still waited. She didn’t approach. It was still relatively inactive movements. Nothing serious that required her to wake Peter up.

But that turned quickly when his voice got louder. The kicking got stronger and he clutched his blankets so tight that it thinned underneath his powerful grip. Sweat glistened in the moonlight that came through his window as his face pinched in terror.

“No… no… Uncle Ben!” Peter’s voice cried. “I can’t… MJ! Ned! I… May! MAY!”

May leapt out of her chair and rushed to Peter’s bedside. “Peter?” her voice shook as she bent over him. “Peter! Peter—wake up!” May took his shoulders and gently shook him. “Peter!”

Peter’s eyes snapped open, wide like saucers and dark as caverns. Silent panic that hyped them both in a heart pounding, brain on fire moment as it tried to work out conflicting instructions. May bent lower, coming next to him, reaching for his forehead.

Peter’s face seized up. Before May could soothe the fear out of those dilated eyes, a fist barreled right into her stomach. The room rushed in a blur, yet she still saw Peter in clear view. Her eyes never left him.

Then impact. She expected to feel pain. Any kind of pain.

All she got was utter darkness.


	4. Tony Stark

Tony crawled into bed around one in the morning. Not unusual considering his insomniac tendencies. He was hardly ever went to bed early unless ordered by Pepper and FRIDAY.

That night, he spent his time tinkering on new projects and searching into the Osborn investigation. He read over the financial files they "borrowed" and nothing look out of place. Nothing incredibly sketchy at least. Sure, there was some off-shore banking accounts, but most millionaires and billionaires have those accounts. Not him, but others do. 

He went to bed after a headache built up behind his eyes. He closed the documents and decided to scan the internet again for reports on the press conference. The first wave of articles were all positive. It was no different from tonight. Even Everhart's report was somewhat positive, but he doubt that was of her choosing.

Pepper did a great job in damage control. When he went to check-in on her after the doctor’s visit, he found she already wrote out a press release that would make readers feel even more sympathy for Peter Parker. Approved, they released it through a public spokesperson that afternoon and on their website. It became the number one trending subject in less than two minutes. 

In the bed and under the covers, Tony slugged a protective arm around Pepper, but was careful not to be close to her swollen belly. Even in this state, Tony feared he may cause some type of damage to his unborn child. No need to take any risks. 

He was drifting in and out when a voice activated overhead. Tony was too tired to listen. It was probably FRIDAY alerting him of another viral report on Peter's publicity. He turned away from the noise and buried his head between the pillows. "Later," he mumbled.

An elbow nudged him in his arm. "Tony? Tony?" came Pepper's concerned voice.

Tony lifted his weary head up. "Are you okay? Is the baby coming?" He glanced to her belly.

Pepper gestured to the ceiling. "Isn't that Peter's AI?"

"Huh?" Tony sat up in the bed. "What?"

FRIDAY's voice came back on again. "Sir? KAREN is emitting an emergency response request."

Tony threw off the blankets, rolling off the bed. Dressed in sweatpants and an AC/DC shirt, he looked around for a pair of shoes. "Talk to me FRIDAY," he said upon spotting shoes. "What's happening?"

"I'm not quite sure, sir," FRIDAY responded. "KAREN only informed me that Peter activated the emergency signal."

"Shit," Tony cursed underneath his breath. "Okay—where?"

"KAREN's location is in the Parker residence, sir."

Once Tony got his shoes on, he saw that Pepper was getting up as well. "No, Pepper, stay in bed."

Pepper frowned. "Tony—"

"I don't want you to get hurt," Tony said, leaving out the door. "FRIDAY? Activate safety protocols around Pepper."

"Yes, sir."

That relieved Tony's mind a little. He didn't want Pepper to get caught in the cross-fire if dangerous individuals infiltrated the compound. Tony slapped the gauntlet to his wrist, readying it to activate upon a single command.

"FRIDAY? Medical?"

"On their way, sir."

He would beat them to the residence. Already, he was nearly there, turning the corner at a speed he reserved for Avenger missions. Despite May's public refusal to share the passcode to their apartment, Tony knew it. Not because May confided in him. Tony learned it on his own, believing he would need it in the future. Like now. 

Tony computed the passcode and was granted access to the apartment. He expected to find the apartment in a mess, with armed mercenaries manhandling Peter and May Parker. 

He didn't find that at all. The apartment was clean. There were no signs of an intrusion. Only him standing in an empty living room. Tony heard a noise in the back and followed the sound to the bedroom.

He never expected what he found.

May Parker laid haphazardly on the floor by the wall. Her red hair fell everywhere with eyes closed, unaware of her nephew kneeling beside her. Peter looked worse than May. Sickly pale, his ghost skin shined in sweat and his eyebrows furrowed in apprehension and self-hatred. 

Peter then shot his head up. Eyes enlarged as he spotted Tony in the doorway. “I-I… I don’t know,” his voice broke into pieces. “She won’t wake. I-I don’t…”

Tony’s feet moved on their own accord. He dropped a knee beside May’s still form. He took her wrist and placed two fingers on a vein. Steady… and strong.

“She’s alive,” he announced in a big breath of relief. “Just unconscious.”

Tony looked to Peter. The kid was shaking, his limbs barely supporting his weight as he remained on his hands and knees. An uncharacteristic grim line took over his face. His eyes were on May. Round and glossy and full of heartache.

“She’s dead,” Peter choked out, his voice reaching a crescendo in hysteria. “Oh god. I killed her. I killed her!”

What? Didn’t he hear him confirm her living status? Tony gripped Peter’s arm. “No—she’s alive,” he stated again. “Unconscious, but alive.”

Peter shook his head, disbelieving every word Tony said. “It’s all my fault. All my fault,” he cried, squeezing his eyes shut. “I killed her.”

“No, Peter, listen to me,” Tony demanded, but the boy stayed rattled, unresponsive to his calls. Peter’s breathing heightened to a burned heaving. One right after another as if he couldn’t get a decent amount of air into his lungs.

Hearing Barton’s words in his head, Tony took Peter’s head in his hands. His palms covered the ears and he forced Peter to look away from May and only to him. “Come on, Underoos,” he calmly said to the kid. “Breathe with me. Okay? Just breathe.”

Tony inhale. Then exhaled. Inhaled again. Followed with an exhale. Peter struggled to follow, but eventually, his breathing settled. No more hyperventilation.

The medical team finally arrived, along with Happy Hogan. Tony asked Happy to help him move the kid away from his aunt. With Happy on one side and Tony on the other, they easily lifted him off the ground and carried him to the bed as the doctors checked May’s vitals.

“Happy? Find his headphones, will you?” Tony asked as Peter vigilantly watched the doctors hoist May up on a gurney.

Happy found the headphones and passed them onto Tony. Tony placed them on Peter’s head. Peter tried to fling them off, but Tony pressed the headphones down on his head. He needed Peter to wear them until his chalk-white skin returned to a more pinkish color.

The medical staff rolled May away out of the room. Peter went to follow, but Tony held him back. “Let the doctors take care of her,” he told Peter. “Let them do their job.”

They stayed like that. Tony holding Peter as the boy sobbed in both anguish and hatred.

* * *

"Here."

Peter rolled his eyes up to the hot coffee Tony offered. He shook his head. 

"Good," Tony declared, sitting next to Peter. "The coffee was meant for me anyway."

He took a drink, relieved to feel the warmth go down his throat and straight to his stomach. He already contacted Pepper and informed her what happened. She immediately wanted to join him down in the medical wing, but Tony convinced her to stay where she was. No need to add more people to the circus and get Peter riled up. Pepper agreed, but made him swear to keep her updated.

They sat in the waiting room, where they were surrounded by hotel art and junk magazines. Not that they were interested in the artwork or magazine. Peter especially. He took a side-glance to Peter. The boy had been relatively quiet since the doctors took May away. The shakes and cries stopped, but Peter remained dispirited. He sat in his seat, arms folded, as he stared blankly in front. His headphones laid limp around his neck, no longer needing them to control his hearing. In fact, he hardly registered anything. His mind preoccupied with tensions and thoughts that swam in deep, dark waters.

Unable to stand the silence, Tony leaned close to Peter. "She's going to be all right," he assured. "Just knocked out."

Peter didn’t say anything. He remained impassive, distant and downtrodden. Nothing Tony’s ever seen.

Tony sighed. “Hey, it’s not your fault for what happened.”

“Yes, it is,” Peter finally spoke up. His voice dead and toneless. “I’m a monster.”

Tony blinked, gobsmacked by the kid’s response. “Excuse me?”

Peter turned in his seat. His face set and unmoved. “I’m dangerous,” he said. “I hurt people. I get people killed.”

“What?” Tony dumfounded by Peter’s words that he hardly took it in a serious matter. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes I do!” Peter’s voice rose.

“Peter—stop it. I know you’re in a great deal of grief, but yelling nonsense—”

Peter pushed himself out of the chair. His eyes popped and red from all the angst and fear that fueled his anger. “You don’t get it! None of you guys do! You’re human! You don’t have to worry about accidently hurting someone every time you shake their hand. Or if you’re squeezing the life out of someone when you hug them. Or pushing them too hard that they go through the wall. Or losing your temper and breaking things with ease before you can stop yourself.

“You don’t have those fears!” Peter’s voice shrilled to a desperate scream. “I do! I have to live like this every single day, hoping that I don’t hurt someone and then… and then…”

Peter sucked in a deep breath. All that adrenaline from the scream washed out of him. Fatigue began to set in as the boy’s shoulders fell in desolate. “But it doesn’t matter,” he mumbled his confession. “I still hurt them. All of them. That makes me the monster.”

Tony stayed in his seat. He didn’t get up right away. Partially because he was stunned by Peter’s outburst. Once he overcame that shock, Tony slowly got up from his seat. “Is that what you really think? That you’re some kind of monster that needs to be chained up in a dungeon?”

Peter half-shrugged. “If I keep hurting people.”

Tony rolled his eyes. Time to be extra serious. “Okay, kid, now that you got your five minute rant, it’s my turn,” he said to Peter. “And I am going to start it off by saying you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“I—”

Tony cut Peter off. “Nope. Zip it. I’m talking now,” he ordered and the kid fell silent. Good. “This past decade, there is one thing I have learned about being a hero and it’s that fear is inevitable.

“You’re right. I am only human, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do a lot of damage on my own. All my actions have led to countless deaths around the globe,” Tony continued on, holding up his hand to start off his list. “First with the weapons I made. Murdered tons of civilians with those. Then Ultron. You know—that killer AI I created? Basically destroyed an entire country. Then of course, the incident in New York. Lots of people died there too. All because of my actions… and others too.

“And you know what?” Tony proposed to the kid. Peter smartly remained silent. “I live with that regret every single day. Mothers and fathers come up to me and call me a murderer. Sometimes much worse names are spat in my face.

“The point I am making is that you are not alone in your fear or doubts. I have them too about myself,” Tony revealed to Peter. “I constantly think about what my actions may do upon others. Or what I could have done to spare this person pain. Hell—why do you think I spend my nights awake rather than asleep?”

Again, Peter didn’t respond. He opted to wait for Tony to answer.

Tony sighed, massaging his temples. “Anyway, the point is that you’re not a monster because of your powers. You’re not even a monster at all. Not compared to me. And I’m only human. We all may have a monster inside of us, but that doesn’t mean we let it win over our better judgment.

“You, kid,” Tony said as he took Peter’s shoulders. “What happened tonight with your aunt… that was an accident. You didn’t mean to hurt her. She knows this. It doesn’t make you a monster. It doesn’t even make your dangerous. It only means that you are a scared kid, suffering from a traumatic experience. There’s nothing wrong with that. I had experiences with PTSD before too and one time, Pepper was nearly injured. But, with a bit of time and a good chat or two, I got better. And you will too. Okay? I promise.”

Peter hesitated, uncertain in Tony’s confidence. “What if I don’t?”

“You will.”

“You don’t know that,” Peter argued. His dark lashes glistened with tears. “I don’t want to hurt her again.”

“And you won’t,” Tony promised him, ensuring he made eye contact as he spoke. “You’re going to get through this. I know it doesn’t feel like it will, but as a PTSD survivor, you will. I have faith in that.”

Peter sniffled, running his hand underneath his nose. “Aunt May wanted me to talk to a psychiatrist,” he confessed. “I told her no. I didn’t want her to think I was… broken.”

“You’re not broken.”

“I feel like I am.”

“I did too at one point.”

Peter breathed out. His muscles finally relaxing from his pent-up tension. “Who did you talk to? What psychiatrist?”

“Oh…I didn’t speak to a psychiatrist,” Tony answered. “But I did speak to a doctor.”

“What doctor?”

Tony’s lips slipped a little. “Oh, um, Bruce,” he said, remembering his old friend. “Bruce Banner.”

Peter’s mouth fell open. “Bruce Banner was your shrink?” he said, before his brows knitted in puzzlement. “But… he’s not that type of doctor.”

Tony snorted at the reminder of when Bruce told him that exact same thing. “As he told me so on many occasions,” Tony commented with a sad smile as he remembered Bruce dozing off on one occasion. “Hey—you know what? If you don’t feel comfortable talking to a stranger about any of this, you can talk to me. I know I’m not a certified psychiatrist or anything like that, but I am a doctor. Well, not a medical doctor, but I do understand a bit what you are going through.

“If you want, we can meet once a week and talk whatever you want to talk about. See if that helps your PTSD or not,” Tony extended the offer to Peter. “What do you say?”

Peter thought it over. “I would prefer that over a random person,” he quietly admitted. “But I’ll have to ask Aunt May. If she ever comes out of this.”

“She will,” Tony avowed when he heard footsteps approaching. “Speaking of the devil.”

Peter turned in the direction of Tony’s line of sight. A doctor, dressed in his fashionable white coat, approached the duo after he parted the doors. “Peter Parker?” the doctor questionably addressed to the kid.

Peter nodded. “Yeah. That’s me,” he replied as he fiddled with his sleeves and rocked on the balls of his feet. “Is she all right? Will she be okay?”

The doctor nodded. “She’s all right. Performed a few X-rays and a MRI scan. Found nothing, but a small hairline fracture on her wrist. She has on a cast that she will need to wear for six to eight weeks. She has some bruising along her stomach and back, but those will go away in a week or two,” he reported to them. “So, to summarize, she’s perfectly fine. Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious,” Peter repeated, sounding both relieved and a bit apprehensive. “Really? She’s not… paralyzed or her heart…”

“Her heart is still strong,” the doctor proclaimed. “No troubles there. She’s awake if you want to speak to her. She’s been very adamant about seeing you this past hour.”

The doctor led Peter and Tony back behind the doors. It was a room Tony was familiar with, especially when Rhodey had to have surgery done on his legs. The doctor steered them through the hallways until they came to a closed door.

He knocked before entering. “Someone is here to see you,” he said to the person inside as he widened the door.

Inside was May Parker. Alive and awake. She was sitting up in her bed, a blue cast wrapped around her left arm. Her red hair was out of her face, pulled back in a messy ponytail. She took one look from her casted arm to the door.

She beamed. “Peter!”

Peter slipped underneath the man’s arm with ease and raced to his aunt’s bedside. “Aunt May! I’m so sorry!” he rapidly apologize. His face screwed up, doing his best to stifle the cries coming up his throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Aunt May brushed Peter’s crazed hair back with her fingers. “Oh, Peter, don’t apologize,” she gently chided. “I was so worried about you. I kept asking the doctors about you and they wouldn’t tell me a darn thing. Are you all right? Are you hurt?” May started surveying Peter’s frame, raising a concern eyebrow upon his state of duress.

“Me?” Peter choked. “I’m not the one wearing a cast.”

May cupped her nephew’s face and brushed a runaway tear aside. “No, but you’re the one that looks like you’re in pain,” she responded. “Oh, Peter. Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. You were scared.”

“But I hurt you.”

“Not on purpose.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Tony watched as May affectionately pulled Peter into a hug. It time for him to be sparse and let the two reconcile after a night of turmoil. He ushered the doctor out and quietly sealed the door behind him.

“Just to be clear,” Tony said as the doctor and him walked away from the closed room. “You were telling the truth. Only a hairline fracture and bruising?”

The doctor nodded his assertion. “We checked for all possibilities. It’s why we did a MRI scan. Needed to see if there was any head damages. Obviously, we are going to keep her overnight. Make sure her concussion isn’t too bad. Overall, though, she’s fine. Just those two things.”

“Good,” Tony said, happy to know May would be well. “So, um, the kid is probably stay the night in the room. Best to order a rollaway for the kid to sleep on.”

The doctor nodded. “I can call for one, Mr. Stark.”

“Thanks,” Tony said, heading to the exit. He called over his shoulder. “Keep me updated on any changes.”

* * *

Once he was out of earshot from the medical wing, Tony pulled out his phone and dialed. He pressed the speaker to his ear as he unlocked his office. The other line kept ringing until he heard the hook click on.

“Stark—you better have a fucking good reason for calling me at this hour.”

“It’s nearly four in the morning,” Tony rebutted. “You were already up. And don’t lie to me, Barton. I stayed at your place a few times to know your schedule.”

Clint Barton sighed on the other side. “What’s wrong then?”

“It’s Peter.”

“What happened to him? Is he okay?”

Tony heard the panic in Clint’s voice despite the archer’s concealed tone. “Yeah, he’s um, fine,” he said. “I called because I wanted to talk to you about his panic attacks. How often did he have them when he was with you?”

There was a small pause on Clint’s end. “How bad was this one?”

“Just… answer the question.”

“Peter only ever had three terrible panic attacks,” Clint relayed to Tony. “Happened either late at night or early in the morning. Never lasted very long. Got him through it and he was fine.” He went quiet for a moment. “I saw what happened at the press conference.”

“You and the rest of the world,” Tony gruffed, not quite enjoying talking about that moment. “He was just under a lot of stress. He returned to the scene of the incident. The school, I mean. Met up with some friends before the conference. That and the pressure of the reporters. It got to him.”

“Not surprised,” Clint responded. “I figured he may have more when he returned to New York.”

“How did you know?”

“The same way you knew he would have one at the conference,” Clint countered. “I saw you too, you know. You were watching him. Waiting.”

Tony took a seat on the couch. “You’re right. I did know,” he confessed. “But, I want to know how you handle it. Besides the whole dim his senses. How did you get him to calm down? Did he ever attack you?”

He heard shuffling in the background. “So Peter attacked someone? Who?”

“Jesus, Barton. Stop nitpicking at my words and answer my questions!”

He heard Clint draw in a sharp breath. “Look, Peter never lashed out at us. Not physically at least. Anytime he was experiencing a nightmare or some kind of flashback, I kept my distance. I waited until he snapped out of it on his own before I confronted him,” he said. “So—you going to tell me what happened?”

Tony decided to fill in the entire evening to Clint. Hawkeye was oddly quiet during the whole story. No interruptions at all. And when Tony finished, Clint didn’t admonished or mock him. Instead, he released a weary breath of sorrow.

“How is she?” Clint asked. “The aunt?”

“Hairline fracture and minor bruising,” Tony replied. “Good considering what could have happened.”

Clint agreed. “Still… poor kid. He’s had it rough this past year.”

“No kidding,” Tony snipped. “I need to find something to help him get better.”

“Then talk to him.”

“That’s it? Just talk. No like… questions I should ask or avoid? Anything?”

“Just let Peter talk to you naturally,” Clint advised. “Eventually, he’ll open up. Give him time, though Stark. I know how you like to rush into things without thinking first.”

Tony pressed his lips in a firm line to stop himself from making a snarky reply. “Okay. Fine. I can do that. I can talk to him. I already offered anyway. Hopefully, his aunt will be okay with it. Originally, she wanted to go with a psychiatrist.”

“I wouldn’t suggest a psychiatrist,” Clint said. “Peter won’t be open to them.”

“That’s what Peter said.”

“Then that’s what you should do.”

Tony fell back against the cushion, curling his neck over the top to stare up at the ceiling. “Hopefully, I can help him. I’m not exactly a poster-child in good, mental health.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Hey! When I say that, it doesn’t mean you can agree,” Tony rebuttal with a huff. “Anyway, I was calling only to see if you had any tips for me or not. Guess you really don’t. Waste of a phone call.”

“As always Stark, it wasn’t that great of a talk with you,” Clint retorted before he softened his hostilities, “but I wish you the best of luck in helping Peter. The kid doesn’t deserve this mess. Any of it. He’s a good kid, you know. Better than any of us.”

“I know.” And he knew. Since the beginning, Tony always knew Peter would be the best hero out of all of them.

“He’s got a long journey ahead of him,” Clint said. “But, he’ll make it there. I know he will.”

“Yeah,” Tony softly replied. “He will.”

A short, reflecting pause followed. “Look—I got to go, but tell Peter to not be a stranger,” Clint said to Tony. “The kids miss him. Especially Lila.” Tony heard another shuffle of a phone being switched to another hand. “Tell Peter we send him our best and that if he ever wants to talk, he can call us. Whenever.”

The call ended and Tony stayed seated, thinking. Peter’s got a long road to recovery. While the public may see a bright-eyed, happy boy, they don’t understand the horrors Peter went through to get to where he was. They thought it was all over for Peter upon his return home. Little did they know the truth. Behind the scenes, coming home didn’t mean it was over. He and the rest of the Avengers would agree that nothing ever stays exactly in the past. Didn’t mean it had to dominate one’s present and future.

It’ll take a bit of time, but Tony had confidence. Slow and steady as the children’s tale once claimed. Slow and steady, and Peter will get back to his normal state of mind.

He’ll be back to being good, old Peter Parker.


	5. Everett Ross

Everett Ross strolled through the compound without an escort. He didn't need one. After all his visits to the old Avenger compound, he knew where to go without directions. Hell, he even knew where the kitchen was! He moved through the corridors, briefcase in hand that contained records he wanted to discuss with Tony Stark. 

He arrived at Stark's office and let himself in. After all, he was expected. 

Tony Stark was at his desk. Not sitting. He hardly ever saw the man sitting down. Always on the move, pacing as he talked out-loud. Colonel Rhodes was in an armchair, relaxed with a coffee in hand. Happy Hogan stood, talking to Tony to the best of his ability as Tony kept shaking his head. The only person to notice Everett's arrival was Pepper Potts.

Pepper was on the couch by herself, feet propped up on a cushion. She had at least three pillows behind her back, supporting her body upright. Her belly was extremely round. She looked about ready to give birth any minute. Despite all of it, Pepper looked composed and relaxed as if she wasn't in her final weeks of pregnancy. 

She smiled at Everett. "Everett—you made it."

Everyone else stopped talking and turned to Everett. Tony recovered first. "Big E!"

"Don't call me that," Everett grunted as he walked further into the spacious office that was three times bigger than his own and about a hundred percent nicer. "It's Agent Ross or Everett." He then turned to Pepper. “Ms. Potts—you look great. Glowing, to be frank.”

“Don’t feel like it,” Pepper responded, hand rubbing her belly. “I just want this baby to come out already. Don’t know why it’s staying inside.”

“Probably because it knows how terrible reality is and prefers not to come,” Tony wittingly remarked. “Smart devil. Probably my kid.”

“Definitely your kid on how many times it likes to kick at night. Keeps me away from my sleep,” Pepper volleyed to Tony. She looked back to Everett. “How are you doing, Everett?”

“Good. Can’t complain,” he replied. “I, um, have my report on the documents you gave to me a few days ago.”

Tony joined his fiancé, but didn’t take a seat. “Great. Tell us more, Big E.”

“It’s Everett or Agent Ross.”

"No can do," Tony said without explanation. Not that Everett expected he would get one. Tony Stark did whatever he wanted and needed to explain his reasoning to no one. Except Pepper. "Tell us what you found.”

Everett let the nickname drop. No point in arguing on it. He moved to sit in one of the chairs, unlocking his briefcase to pull out his analysis report and the records Happy Hogan passed onto him earlier that week. "My team and I scoured the documents, traced the money into different accounts. We managed to narrow it down to these three accounts."

He passed copies of his report to Tony, Pepper, Rhodey, Happy and...

"Where's May?" Everett asked, glancing about the room in search for the red-haired beauty. After all, the deal was that she be included in the investigation. 

"She's with Peter," Pepper informed him. 

"We'll tell her everything," Tony added, flipping through Everett’s report. "Or at least, they all will." He gestured to the others, his finger bluntly pointing to Pepper. He took a quick look over the report, his eyes rapidly reading from left to right. "These three accounts are from where?"

He lifted the third page and pointed to a section of numbers. “Oh, that is where things get tricky,” he said. “The money deposited into this off-shore accounts were later withdrawn in cash. All of it.”

Tony didn’t blink. “All of it?” he repeated. “And… no one noticed that much money was being drawn out?”

“I called those banks, but without a proper warrant, I’m not allowed to get a hold of those records,” Everett explained. “My guess is that they used that money to finance the murderer. Or whoever for criminal activities.”

“Cash is harder to trace, that’s for sure,” Colonel Rhodes added. “I don’t understand though. Most banks notify if the withdrawals are over a certain limit. This clearly is over the limit. All of them are.”

“Maybe that’s why they picked this unknown bank,” Pepper suggested. “Maybe the bank allowed them to do such large withdrawals with no questions asked.”

“A shady bank,” Tony mocked. “Where is the world coming to when you can no longer trust a bank?”

“Funny, Tony,” Colonel Rhodes deadpanned, uninterested in the genius’s repertoire. “Do we know who made the withdrawals? Do we have a name?”

Everett pulled out a photograph. “Dr. Mendel Stromm,” he answered as he held up the photo for all to see. “He’s the business partner of Norman Osborn. Formerly, actually. He retired a few years ago. During his career at Oscorp, he was the head of the Department of Medicine in the company. Was part of a lot of research that helped victims in the army recover from catastrophes.”

Happy Hogan hummed as he looked over the photograph. “You mean like the same studies and research Richard Parker was involved?”

Time for the big reveal. “He was Richard Parker’s direct superior.”

And that confirmation made a lot of sad noises around the room. Tony turned away, rubbing one hand over his face. “Son of a bitch,” he growled. “How long does this trail run? You think one madman is enough, you find out there are two in the same company. Hell! They founded a company together!”

“It makes sense, Tones,” Colonel Rhodes said. “They are partners. Both would probably do whatever they could to keep their company from falling apart.”

“But murder?”

“I didn’t say they were exactly sane people,” Colonel Rhodes countered. “Just that I’m not surprised. Partners in business. Partners in crime.”

Tony Stark snorted. “Yeah, well, they are also going to be partners in a jail cell once I get a hold of them,” he growled. “Clearly, this… doctor or whatever, knew something if he’s taking out all that money.”

“That does seem to be where the evidence points to,” Everett agreed.

Tony's unblinking eyes stared straight ahead, his frown deepening. "Right. Then, I say we have a chat with him," he decided. "He's retired right? Plenty of time for him to confess to us."

"What makes you think he will confess?" Happy posed.

"Because I'll give him a reason to confess."

Pepper gave Tony a warning look. “Tony—”

Everett shook his head. "Absolutely not," he declared. "You'll be risking this whole operation if you go. Give me more time and we may be able to subpoena that information without dragging your involvement. We could make it appear as if we are investigating a possible laundering, white-collar crime."

"That'll take too much time!" Tony argued. "If we wait, it gives Osborn the chance to make his move against Peter."

Everett pursed his lips and shook his head. "You're paranoid," he stated. "Osborn has done nothing to Peter. Made no move against him."

"Except murdering his parents and giving him enhanced powers."

"Exactly!" Everett shouted, although he now realized that wasn’t the best response. He backtracked on course to the point. "If we give Osborn the slightest indication that we are on to him in regards to Peter, then he may do something we will all regret."

"He could be doing something now!" Tony threw back. "You think Osborn isn't plotting away? I know Norman. He's a genius and a psychopath. He's not going to let his greatest achievement walk away from him."

"He hadn't when Parker was swinging around New York the entire time," Everett reminded Tony. 

“That’s because he didn’t know it was Peter behind the mask!” Tony quarreled. “Thanks to Ross, he knows! With that knowledge, it gives him an advantage he didn’t have before.”

“Well, I don’t imagine Osborn storming here to kidnap Peter,” Everett said, hand circling the fortress around them. “It would be a rather stupid and reckless thing to do.”

“I wouldn’t go past him.”

“Tony,” Colonel Rhodes interrupted their bickering. “He has a point. I doubt Osborn is going to attack Peter anytime soon. Agent Ross is right. We cannot let Osborn or anyone else know of the investigation. Too many risks of evidence disappearing. Or worse.”

“Like jumpstarting Osborn into doing something deadly reckless,” illuminated Pepper. “I say we try to get the subpoena, Tony. Do it legal and in a way that won’t result in more trouble.”

Tony looked to each friend, exasperated. Even Happy Hogan shrugged in agreement with them. Tony flippantly tossed his hands up in defeat, turning his backs to them all as he moved away. He heaved a sigh. “Fine. I don’t necessarily agree, but fine,” he conceded. “You go ahead with the subpoenas.”

“Already having Agent Carter working on it,” Everett responded. “I’ll let you know when we serve them.”

Tony didn’t thank him. “Don’t forget to validate your ticket before you go.”

And apparently that was the signal for his departure. Everett collected his belongings and put them in his briefcase. “I’ll send you guys any updates.”

“Thank you, Everett,” Pepper said, clasping his hand in shake of gratitude. Then, she whispered. “Don’t mind Tony. He’s glad to have you on our side.”

Everett didn’t know if that was true. He got up.

“Goodbye, Big E,” Tony called from in the back, pouring a glass of scotch. “Again—validate!”

Everett hesitated. "Actually, there's one more thing I need to do."

* * *

The door opened and May Parker stood in front of him. One arm was in a cast, but like Pepper, she seemed unaware of her uncomfortable misfortune. "Everett," she acknowledged, opening the door wider. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I stopped by to talk with Stark," Everett said, keeping the conversation at a bare minimum to not expose anything out in the open. "Discussed a few things."

May caught the subtle meaning. "Oh! I wasn’t even aware you were coming.”

"It was all last-minute.”

“Was the conversation enlightening or less so?”

“Depends who you talk to," Everett replied and then, he nudged to her cast. "What happened to your arm?"

May glanced briefly down at it before she moved it out of sight. "Oh, it was an accident. Hit the floor too hard," she brushed off his concerns. "So, um, do you need to speak to me?"

Everett shook his head. "Oh, um, no. I actually came by because I wanted to speak with Peter," he said. "That is... if you don't mind?"

"No, of course not," May said, gesturing him to enter their apartment.

He stepped past the threshold and surveyed the apartment. It didn't look much like a home, but rather a safe house. Bland and empty. It was hardly decorative and the furniture itself was sparse. Probably because time didn't allow them.

May closed the door. "So, um, I'll go get him. Make yourself comfortable," she said, moving down the hallway. 

Everett didn't take a seat. He stood and waited. He heard a few muffled voices carry from down the hallway, but he didn't try to focus on the words. A minute later, May returned with a boy that Everett recognized well.

Peter Parker beamed. "Agent Ross!"

"Peter," Everett returned and going in for a handshake, Peter opted for an embrace. So, Everett hugged him in return.

They parted and Everett took the time to look over the kid. The last time he saw Peter, he was but a boy, lost and confused. Now, he looked a bit taller, darker and more mature. A young man. The boy forgotten behind on his journey home. 

All things considered, Peter looked good. Healthy. And when the kid smiled, it reminded Everett of the boy he met back in Wakanda.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked.

“Oh—I had a few things I needed to talk to Stark about and since I was here, figured I would see how you were doing,” Everett said. He looked to May. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

May excused herself, telling Peter and Everett she was going to visit Pepper. Everett understood it as code to learn what she missed from the earlier meeting. She placed a kiss on Peter’s forehead, told him she would be home later and walked out the apartment to give Everett and Peter privacy.

The two have been alone since nine months ago. In February when Everett watched the kid disappear on a private jet. Never heard from him again either. In all that time, Everett wondered about the kid. Wondered how he was doing and where he was, while Everett spent his days digging into the files of Norman Osborn and Oscorp while simultaneously betraying his superior officer.

In all, Everett guessed they both changed since the last time they saw one another.

Peter turned to Everett. “Wanna see my room? Come on!”

Everett followed Peter to a bedroom. It looked the same as the living room. Bare walls, little furniture and no sense of theme. The only reason Everett figured it to be Peter’s bedroom were the science books on the desk and a robotic arm on the nightstand. Everything else was simple in design. Like a hotel.

“I know it’s not much,” Peter said as if he read Everett’s thoughts. “We haven’t had the time to get around to ordering things. We’re still waiting on word if we’re getting our belongings back from the government. Is that why you’re here?”

“Um, no,” Everett roamed the room, examining the robotic arm. “Did you build this?”

Everett jumped in a startle when the robotic arm moved to him, jerking its arm toward him. Peter rushed over, crawling over the bed to the nightstand with the robotic arm. “Oh, don’t mind Dumbo,” he said. “He’s moves to greet any new voice he hears. You can shake his hand if you want.”

Everett’s eyes lingered uneasily at the robot. “I think I’ll pass,” he said. “So… did you build it or did Stark?”

“I did,” Peter proudly stated, tapping the robotic arm. The robot went limp.

“Very impressive,” Everett complimented. “Is that all it does?”

“So far,” Peter said. “He used to hit the snooze button for me and turn off the lights, but he doesn’t have to do that anymore.”

“Because you decided you can do it yourself?”

Peter cracked a grin. “No, because I have KAREN.”

“Karen?” Was that a babysitter? Isn’t the kid too old for a nanny?

Peter pointed up. “Say hi to Agent Ross, KAREN.”

A voice ahead boomed. “Hello, Agent Everett Ross. How are you doing?”

Everett scanned the walls and ceiling, searching around for some sort of speaker. “What the—”

“KAREN is an AI,” Peter clarified for him. “Kind of like what FRIDAY is, but KAREN is programmed for me. And, no. I didn’t build her. Tony did.”

“And this… KAREN,” Everett said, eyeing the walls suspiciously, “can hear and see everything?”

Peter nodded. “Yep, well, only in this room. Aunt May didn’t want an AI in our apartment, but compromised with having KAREN placed in my room.”

“And why do you need KAREN if you already have a robot?”

Peter bowed his head and looked away. “It’s complicated,” he said, forgetting all about the robots. “So—what are you doing here? What did you and Mr. Stark talked about?”

Everett moved to sit on the bed beside the kid. “Oh, well, nothing in general. About Thaddeus Ross and clearing up on a few things,” he said. “Talking to Stark wasn’t the only reason I came here. I could have done that over the phone. I actually stopped by to see you.”

“Really?" Peter asked. "Why?"

"Well, because there's a rumor going around that you had a birthday recently," Everett said, watching Peter give himself away with a tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth. "Sixteen years old now?"

“Yeah. March 1."

"Then that calls for something," Everett reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, wrapped box. “Happy Birthday.”

Peter went wide-eyed at the gift. “Oh… you didn’t have to give me a gift,” he said. “That was ages ago. I’ll be seventeen soon enough anyway.”

“It’s okay. Sixteen is a more important birthday than seventeen,” Everett said and handed the gift to Peter. “Sixteen marks the day you become a man. No longer a child.” He gestured to the gift. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Peter delicately unwrapped the small box. He tore the paper off, revealing a black, square case. He opened it. Inside, resting on cotton balls, was an American Waltham A-11 watch with military green band and silver hands pointing to the correct time.

Peter looked amazed. “Wow,” he muttered, pulling the watch out of the box and holding it delicately between his fingers. “It’s nice.”

“And very old,” Everett added. “Belonged to my grandfather. Had it with him through World War II. Apparently it was the watch that helped won the war. If you believe in that nonsense.”

Peter’s expression dropped from amazed to bug-eyed shock. “Oh, I-I can’t accept this,” he said, shoving the watch back to Everett. “No… I can’t take something that belongs to your family.”

Everett pushed the watch back to the kid. “It’s okay. I want you to have it,” he said. “My grandfather passed it onto my father when he turned sixteen and then my father gave it to me when I was sixteen.

“And seeing as I don’t have any kids and probably never will, I figured I would give it to you,” Everett said, giving a small shrug “You turned sixteen and... well, you’re the closest thing I have to a son.”

Strange how emotionally attached Everett became toward the kid. He recalled a time when he argued with T’Challa about taking on the responsibilities of a teenager. But, it quickly changed and soon, Everett and Peter bonded over meals and car trips, talking and arguing about anything and everything. That seemed years ago now. Even their one-month adventure felt too far in the past to be remembered and yet, Everett still pictured the young boy, trying his best not to squint as he aimed a gun at a pile of rocks.

The confession didn’t faze Peter though. Almost like he already knew long ago. Probably even before Everett knew. Yet, the kid lowered his gaze, fidgeting on the bed as he tried to restrain a smile. “T-Thanks, sir. That… that means a lot,” he said. “You’re a great parent.”

Everett didn’t quite believe that to be true, but he accepted the compliment in good grace. He glanced to the watch. “Here, let me help,” he said, taking the watch from Peter and wrapping it around his right wrist. It snugged comfortably against the kid’s thin wrist. “There… looks good on you.”

Peter turned his wrist over, admiring the vintage watch. “It’s really nice,” he murmured. “Thank you. I promise I’ll take good care of it. I swear!”

“Good,” Everett said with a small chuckle. “Now you have something else to wear on your wrists other that those web shooters.”

That garnered an amused smile from Peter. “I still have those by the way,” he said. “Haven’t used them lately though.”

“And I doubt you will for some time,” said Everett, thinking of the improbability of Peter ever heading back to Queens. “In the meantime, what do you do around here? Besides messing about with robots.”

“Oh, um, I guess,” Peter said, mulling over his daily activities. “I don’t really do that much. I spend some of my time with Mr. Stark. Helping him with his small projects. We talk then too. Just about stuff. Then I… I guess I exercise. I have this routine that helps me stay focus and alert. But, um, that’s it really. Nothing much.”

Didn’t seem a thrilling lifestyle compared to what he was used to in the past year. “I’m sure you’ll find more things to do once you’ve settled,” he said. “You’ve only been here for… what? Two days?”

“Five days,” Peter responded, holding up five fingers. “And, I guess so. Hope so.”

There was a pause before Peter spoke again. “Hey, Agent Ross?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna shoot some hoops?”

* * *

“Okay… Okay,” rattled Everett as he snatched the basketball before it bounced off the court. “I change my mind. I want you to go back to playing poorly.”

They were outside on the basketball court. The weather was warm despite it being early October. No nip in the air to signal the oncoming winter. Many of the tress outlying the compound stayed clothed in green. But, soon enough, the bright sun would chill and every bough would go brown. Until then, Peter and him would enjoy the warm temperatures for a fun game. 

Peter crooked him a half-smile. “I thought you wanted me to do my best. That you could handle it.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think your aim got any better than the last time I saw you,” Everett confessed as he threw the basketball to Peter.

The kid caught it with one hand. “I practiced a bit,” he said, moving around the middle court to find a place. He took aim again and released the ball in a powerful arch. The basketball flew up in the air and swished down into the netted basket. “Your turn!”

Everett grabbed the ball again and exchanged places with Peter. He carefully aimed the ball. The net in sight. All he had to do was a nice throw straight into the basket. He only needed the right amount of force and it would spare him from embarrassment.

Everett bent his knees. He raised the ball up in his hands. He took one last look. Then, he sprung up, shooting the ball right at the net. He watched, following the spinning ball in the air. It hit the backboard and circled the rim. Everett urged it to fall into the net, nearly begging it to do as told.

But the ball slipped and fell off the rim. It bounced once. Twice. Then a quiet dribble as it drifted away from Everett’s defeat.

Everett dropped his chin to his chest as Peter announced the score. “E!” Peter declared. “And that spells HORSE. You losing your groove, Agent Ross.”

“Not my groove,” Everett countered, brushing a hand down the side of his face. “Just my dignity. I’ll find it somewhere else.”

Peter swooped in beside Everett. “Wanna play another round? We can spell something different this time. I mean, we already did PIG, DUCK, and HORSE. Maybe… we can spell PANTHER?”

Everett shook his head. “No. No more. I lost too many and I don’t feel like losing again.”

“I’ll go easy. I promise!”

“Nope,” Everett said, rolling down his sleeves. He headed over to the bench where he discarded his suit-jacket. “Besides, I have to get going.”

Peter groaned, but accepted the inevitable. “Got bad guys to catch?” he questioned, picking up the basketball and dribbling it around him. “Or runaways you have to hide?”

“Not anymore,” Everett responded, slipping into his jacket. “I have to prepare for the others’ arrival.”

Peter stopped dribbling the ball. “The others?” he repeated. “What others? Who’s coming?”

Everett fixed the ends of his jacket so that it fitted properly. “All of them,” he answered, looking back to Peter. “They’re coming home.”


	6. Colonel James Rhodes

Colonel James Rhodes sat in the front seat of Tony’s Telsa Roadster, enjoying the luxury car’s accommodations like the heated seats which warmed him that autumn day. Tony invited him along to a meeting he needed to attend. It was out in Atlantic City. Tony promised they would have a boys’ day out after the meeting. It sounded too good to give up. Rhodes didn't mind taking some time away from the compound to enjoy a round of blackjack and craps.

Tony insisted on driving rather than take the jet or even let Happy drive. Didn't bother Rhodes. The drive was nice, even if Tony was going twenty over the speed limit. He kept telling him to slow down, but Tony cranked the music up and yell, "What?"

Rhodes gave up and simply enjoyed his life before he lost it. 

He watched the scenery pass, trees sprouting more and more around them as they turned off the interstate. The city life was gone, replaced with a greenery that made Rhodes think they were entering the countryside. In fact, as he took a quick look around the setting, nothing resembled Atlantic City. There were no skyscrapers, bright lights or loud sounds. No mass crowds congested the sidewalks. No bars or restaurants and definitely no casinos were in sight.

Only single-story homes lined the road, along with the occasional fast-food chain and gas station. Families were out and about, walking children and dogs alike. A large park came into view with people out having picnics and watching a little league baseball game. Fresh mowed grass overwhelmed him and Rhodes realized he was tricked.

"All right, Tony," Rhodes said as he turned off the music. "Where are we really going?"

Tony steered the car around the corner as pedestrians gaped at the sleek vehicle they could never afford in their whole lives. Probably never seen one in action before. "I wasn't lying to you entirely," he started off his defense. "We do have a meeting to go to. It's just not in Atlantic City."

"I figured that much after passing another park," Rhodes nudged his head to the park behind them. "Who's the meeting with?"

"Dr. Mendel Stromm."

Rhodes heard of that name before. "Dr. Mendel—wait. What? Tony!" Rhodes shouted upon recollecting where he heard the name. "What the hell? We already agreed to Agent Ross's plan."

"No, you guys agreed to it," Tony clarified, defending his poor actions. "I simply said go on ahead. Doesn't mean I wasn't going to follow through with my own plan."

"So you dragged me along with you?"

"I need back-up."

"Jesus, Tones,” Rhodes groaned, dropping his head in his hands. How did he _not_ see this coming? He should have known better. After all these years of knowing Tony, Rhodes knew his friend would never bow to authority. Even if they were allies.

"Hey!” Tony exclaimed as he drove his car up a drive. “We're here!"

Tony parked, but neither of them got out of their seats. Rhodes peered at the place. "Are you sure this is the right address?"

"Yeah," Tony said, befuddled as well. "12 W Saddle River Rd. That's what FRIDAY found."

"Is it possible that it's wrong?"

Tony’s mouth firmed into a straight line. "No," he stated, unbuckling his seat. "He's in there. And I am going to find him."

He got out of the car and headed up to the building. Rhodes shouted at him. "Tony! Tony! This isn't—are you even listening to me? Tony!" he shook his head, grumbling underneath his breath at the ridiculousness of it all. 

"Are you coming?" Tony yelled from the steps to him. 

Rhodes threw up a middle finger before getting out of his seat. His new braces set upon movement and helped him up. He slammed the door and walked over toward Tony. "You're out of your god-damn mind," he muttered as he reached Tony. "But whatever. I'm here. I'll help you, but if we get in trouble, I will throw you under the bus."

"Don't want to ruin your newfound friendship with Big E?"

"No, I don't want to receive Pepper's wrath when she finds out.”

They followed the concrete path that led them direction to a colossal structure. It loomed over them, crowned in crimson as it welcomed them. Rhodes opened the door and Tony followed, entering the elegant building of Villa Marie Claire, a hospice center. 

The atmosphere was not what Rhodes expected. For a house of the dying, he expected a more gloomy appearance. Grey walls, dark floor and a stench that could never be removed. Instead, he found the atmosphere completely different from his expectations. The air had a perfumed scent. The walls white and clean, an architectural designed ceiling along with polished marble. Even the seating were high-end with plush cushions and fanciful decor. Every surface was dustless and shined in the sunlight. A water cooler with plastic cups was available, along with coffee, tea and plain cookies for all to enjoy. 

Were they at an inn or a hospice? It was hard to tell. 

"May I help you?"

Rhodes and Tony turned to a petite woman with mousy colored hair, fit in tight curls and wore a standard uniform of navy and khaki. Tony whipped off his glasses and put on his charm. "Yes, we are here to speak to a Dr. Mendel Stromm."

The receptionist frowned. "I don't recall Dr. Stromm receiving any visitors today."

"It's more of a drop-in type of situation," Tony answered, turning on his charisma by flattering her with that casual smile. "Old friends. Go way back."

The receptionist wasn’t impressed. "Friends? With Tony Stark?" she questioned. "Why haven't you visited him before? Write any letters?"

Rhodes wanted to highly compliment the woman for not following for Tony’s flirtatious gestures. Perceptive woman. She deserved a medal.

Tony was not used to being questioned. He straightened his shoulders, deciding on another play. "I've been a bit busy lately," he said. "Seen the news recently?"

She was still not impressed. "I can't let you in there without proper authorization."

"We have it.”

The receptionist raised a dubious eyebrow in a tight arch. “Really?” she questioned, crossing her arms.

Tony gestured to her Apple laptop at her desk. “Check the records.”

The receptionist pulled herself to her laptop and typed away. Rhodes whispered into Tony’s ear. “Tones, we don’t have authorization.”

“We do now,” Tony subtly showed Rhodes his phone. FRIDAY was hacking into the system, a step ahead of the receptionist as it input Tony’s name into the visitor’s log.

Tony slid the phone out of sight. He leaned against the countered, his lips bearing a semblance of a smile. Enough to make him appear he was enjoying the mix-up rather than being scared that he would be caught. The opposite of what Rhodes felt.

The receptionist stopped typing. She drew her eyes closer to the screen in mild disbelief. She must have re-read the screen for she blinked several times, dumbfounded by her results. It appeared FRIDAY won.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Stark,” the receptionist bumbled out of her seat, pulling out tags and scribblings their names in black marker. “I have never made such a mistake and to do it in front of you—”

“No worries,” Tony said, snatching his nametag without even looking at the woman. “As I said, it was all very last-minute. Now, where is his room?”

* * *

Rhodes could not believe this building was a hospice. It was too nice. Impressionist paintings on the walls, vases filled with freshly cut flowers and carpet rooms filled every corridor. The nurses were unhurried, moving down the corridors with a serene purposefulness in their rounds as if death was not encroaching on their patients at all.

Tony slowed in his footsteps. "This is Dr. Mendel's room," Tony pointed to the 101 numbered door.

They reached the door and Tony tested the door knob. Unlocked. He opened it and they both slipped into Mendel's room. The room itself wasn't that spacious, but nicely furnished with a bed, television, bookcase, a couch and small tokens that belonged to the patient. Pictures of children and adults littered the nightstand that had a lamp overhead a sickly colored man—Dr. Mendel Stromm.

He looked nothing like the photograph Agent Ross showed them the day before. His skin was pallid, hair nearly gone and lips dry and cracked. This was a man who looked half-way dead like the flowers in the vase on the dressing table. 

"Is that him?" Rhodes asked, uncertain. 

Tony nodded. "Looks like a zombie version of him, but yeah," he concluded. He whipped around the door. "Okay, you stay on guard. I'm going to go and talk to him."

"Wait—Tony... Tony!" Rhodes half-shouted, but Tony already slid across the room to Dr. Mendel’s bedside. 

Tony stayed a safe distance away from the patient, looking him over with mild disgust and sympathy. He craned his back over, studying the man's tired face. He poked him. "All right, cut the crap," Tony said. “You’re not dead.”

Rhodes sighed, shaking his head as he peeked the corridor. All clear so far. No one realized they were duped. Yet.

Tony kept on poking the guy. "Hey—come on," he grumbled at the sick man. "I know you're not dead. Wake up."

Dr. Mendel’s eyelids slowly peeled back. Tony cringed upon sight, leaning back a bit from him. “Huh—you really are close to dying aren’t you?”

Tony’s voice shocked something into the dying doctor. His eyes went wide in recognition and dread. Dr. Mendel’s hands started to shake as they reached up, attempting to snatch onto Tony's arm. Tony smartly moved himself out of reach. 

"Uh-uh, none of that," Tony said, but the doctor kept trying to grab him. 

His hands trembled and his mouth made gasping sounds as if trying to speak, but words failed to come out. Perhaps he was parched?

"Tony—offer him water," Rhodes suggested.

Tony looked around and saw a glass. He picked it up and filled the cup with water from the bathroom sink. He returned and held it out for the dying man. But Dr. Mendel didn't take the water. He grabbed Tony's wrist and pulled him in close, spilling the water all over the bed. 

"Rhodey!" Tony half-shouted. 

Rhodes sprung into action. He ran to his friend's side to pull him away from Dr. Mendel. But the guy had a tougher grip than any dying man should have. His eyes were as wide as saucers and he kept gasping, choking to speak. His words were grabbled, unheard through the wheezing.

Tony and Rhodes shared a look. "What?" Tony asked Dr. Mendel.

The doctor tried again. He swallowed with great difficulty. "P... P-poison," he choked and his finger pointed to his throat. "P-Poison."

They both glanced to the doctor’s throat. The gaunt colored skin tinged green, rising up his throat to his chin. "Oh shit," Tony cursed. "Rhodey! Get the doctors. Get help!"

Rhodes didn't need to be told twice. He went back to the door, swung it open and raced out to the corridor. Glancing around, he spotted two people at the end of the hallway. "Help! Help! This man needs help! He's been poisoned!"

That got the doctors' attention. They ran down the hallway, shouting for something and someone. Rhodes went back into the room. 

"Got doctors coming," Rhodes announced, but Tony was with Dr. Mendel. Their faces close to one another.

"No—come on," Tony said, patting the man's face to keep him alert. "What did you do with the money? The money!”

Dr. Mendel’s chest heaved up in a struggle, but he said nothing. Yellow eyes rolling and unfocused.

Tony grabbed the man's collar. "Tell me! Who did you pay to kill the Parkers?"

Rhodes went to Tony. "Tones, come on," he urged to get Tony to back off the man. He was dying. He wouldn't say anything. Probably even couldn’t looking at how polluted his neck looked.

And yet, the man surprised Rhodes. Dr. Mendel pulled Tony closer, gesturing for him to listen closely. There was clearly little time left. They all knew it. But, the man refused to die in peace. He struggled, fought through the agony of the poison that now made the rest of his body look green. He inhaled. His breaths coming in ragged and shallow gasps. Tony dipped his head to hear.

"D... D-Dead," Dr. Mendel stuttered in death's voice, "Pool..."

His fingers loosened from Tony's arm. It fell limp, hanging over the bed as his head sunk back into the pillow. His eyes remained open, locked on Tony in terror and agony. His mouth still parted in the formation of his last word. By the time the doctors stormed into the room with the necessary equipment, he was far too gone to be resurrected.

Tony and Rhodes backed away, letting the doctors and nurses handle the body with care. Rhodes turned to Tony, who was white and unseeing. "What was it that he said?" he asked, unsure that he heard correctly through the man's gasps.

"Dead pool," Tony repeated. "He said dead pool."

"What's that?"

"I have no idea."

* * *

“Aren’t you glad we didn’t follow through with Big E’s plan?”

Rhodes exasperatedly shook his head. “I’m not exactly pleased either way,” he said. “A man died today.”

“Murdered,” Tony corrected as they entered the compound. “He was murdered.”

The sad and unexpected ending of Dr. Mendel Stromm brought them onto the next stage of the investigation—dead pool. It wasn’t very much to go off. Neither Tony nor he knew what it meant. The guy was half-delusional, the poison sucking the sanity out of him that it could have been a simple hallucination. Many dying people experience such symptoms, especially ones who were poisoned with an unknown drug. Like Dr. Mendel was.

“And let me guess,” Rhodes said as he walked side-by-side with Tony, “you think Norman Osborn poisoned him.”

“Nah… Norman wouldn’t do it himself,” Tony dismissed with a wave. “He would have another person get their hands dirty like he did with the Parkers.”

They stopped at the lounge. It was empty much to their delight. No need to explain their day yet. They both went straight to the bar. Tony poured a scotch and Rhodes ordered a beer. Any beer.

They had their drinks and sat on the stools rather than the comfortable sofas that faced an exquisite view of an open field. Rather, they kept their heads down and thought over what they witnessed.

“He’s onto us and this proves it,” Tony muttered and he tipped his glass back, drowning the liquid down his throat. “Dr. Mendell knew he was poisoned. Obviously it was done on Osborn’s orders. Must have concocted a poison in his lab at Oscorp.”

Earlier in the day, Rhodes would have said Tony was paranoid about Norman Osborn. After what he witnessed at the hospice, Rhodes reconsidered his friend’s paranoia.

“Probably,” Rhodes agreed, mindlessly staring at the green label on his beer. “Do you know of any poison that makes a man turn green?”

“Arsenic,” Tony replied, “but that doesn’t make a person turn green. It’s the other way around. Green is the killer.” He paused. “I can’t think of anything other than gamma ray exposure like Banner. But, we aren’t exactly turning green are we?”

Rhodes checked his hands. Still the same color as before. “No, I guess that rules that out.”

Tony heavily sighed. “How did Osborn know?” he poised, clutching his drink. “How did he _know_?”

Rhodes shrugged. Everything was kept under wraps. Not a single word was spoken about it to any other ears. Not even Peter Parker knew anything about it and he had super-hearing—so Rhodes was told.

That was not a good enough answer. “If he knows we are onto him, then he’ll go after the next person or thing,” Tony continued as he pulled out his Starkphone. “FRIDAY? Anything yet?”

FRIDAY flared up on his screen. “I have found over 36.7 million matches in the system, sir. Would you like to read them?”

Tony moaned, eyes closed in deliberation. “Narrow it down to anything associating with Oscorp or Parkers.”

“Yes, sir.”

FRIDAY dimmed and Tony put his phone away. Rhodes watched him pour another glass of scotch. “Dead pool. Sounds like some crap video game,” he said and he took a swing of his drink. “Are you sure you never heard this through the military?”

Rhodes thought back. In all of his years, he’s never heard of anything remotely like dead pool. “Not in my life,” he answered. “Never heard anything of it.”

Tony groaned. “That’s great. We have a dead man and a random word or two,” he agonized as he shoved his fingers through his short hair. “I don’t know what to do next.”

“Maybe I can be of some help?”

Rhodes swirled in his seat. Eyes to the door, eyebrows arching high up his forehead as he stared at a person both familiar and complete stranger. Grizzled chin, sleek blonde hair and warm, blue eyes met his own as the old friend remained by the door.

Steve Rogers. Captain America. The First Avenger.

He’s returned home.

Rhodes turned back to his beer and took a long drink. Today was full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware Deadpool is one word, but Tony and Rhodes do not know that. They'll figure it out soon enough.


	7. Steve Rogers

One year and seven months. 

That was the last time he set foot back at the Avengers compound. The place he called home since his awakening into the new world. Yet, even after being gone for so long, he remembered every corridor, room and object in the compound. He strolled through the corridor, unseen and undisturbed. Looking at his familiar haunt brought back the pleasant memories of them all standing around, joking, laughing and talking over food and drinks.

He pictured Natasha and Bruce, sitting side-by-side, whispering to one another. He envisioned Clint showing off his talent of trick shots with a shot glass, impressing Sam. Clint saw Thor, standing all godly and his blonde waves tied away from his face as he humored Colonel Rhodes with vivid tales of his heroic fights in his homeworld. And, of course, he saw Tony. Standing off to the side watching all of them. A content, but fearful look expressed through his tortured eyes. A man burdened with knowledge and fear. And yet, he smiled when looked at, joked when spoken to, and defended when threatened. He showed nothing of his burdens, choosing to always keep them close to his heart rather than expose it to others. 

Steve pitied him. Not in a condescending way. He pitied that Tony never trusted them enough to be open with his fears until it broke them apart. 

The Avengers broke apart, but Steve never thought the friendships did. He still respected Tony, considered him a friend despite everything that happened between them. He only hoped Tony felt the same.

He heard Tony's voice, drifting from a door Steve remembered as the lounge where they all headed to after a mission. He opened the door and saw Tony and Rhodes sitting at the bar, both with drinks in their hands. They looked downtrodden, emotionally distressed with their slouched shoulders and Tony digging into his own scalp.

"I don't know what to do next," Tony confessed to Rhodes.

It was the first time Steve ever heard Tony sound vulnerable, not including his anger in Siberia. This was a doubt-ridden desperation. Tony Stark didn't have all the knowledge. Only the fear.

"Maybe I could be of some help?"

Both Tony and Rhodes swiveled in their seats, their eyes darted from their drinks to him. Rhodes looked surprised and humored all at once before he turned back to his beer and drank. Tony stayed frozen, his face suddenly unreadable despite the chilling blast he gave when he stared at him. 

Rhodes finished his beer and tossed it in the recycle bin. "I'm gonna go and spend the rest of my day enjoying it," he commented. "Cap—good to see you again."

Steve shook Rhodes' hand before the man exit from the same doors Steve entered. 

And now it was down to two.

Tony got up from his stool and moved to the other side of the bar. Steve glided to the stools. "How you doing?" he asked Tony

Tony shrugged, nonchalantly. "Same old," he said, pulling out a small bowl of pretzels and snacking on them. "Decided to look your age?”

When Steve stared at him quizzically, Tony gestured to the beard. “What? Kept a picture of Thor in your wallet for inspiration?”

“Ha-ha,” Steve deadpanned, running his hand down his jawline. “Had to shed the Captain America identity on the run.”

“So you went with Thor? Not exactly discreet.”

Again, Steve let out a short chuckle. “True, but it worked. No one ever noticed.”

“Then why are you revealing yourself now?” Tony asked.

“What do you mean?”

Tony put the bowl of pretzels down. “I mean—what are you doing here?"

"I'm here for the new agreement."

"That's not until next week," Tony said, spreading his arms out on the counter. "What the hell are you doing here _now_?"

Not exactly the welcoming conversation, but better than Steve planned. "I figured I come early, check out everything to make sure—"

"It wasn't all some grand trap?" finished Tony in a flippant mood. 

Steve exhaled, but nodded. "Yes."

Tony turned away, shaking his head. "Shouldn't I be the one to worry about that?" he snarked. "It was my heart that got stabbed by my father’s shield.”

The sigh escaped in deep resigned. The guilt he carried was not held in his heart, but in his mind. He had no regrets in saving Bucky, but he never wanted to hurt Tony. It unfortunately happened despite his efforts to spare them both.

“I never wanted to,” Steve confessed.

“And yet you did it anyway,” Tony rebuked.

“You were going to kill Bucky,” Steve said, remembering how close he was to losing his old friend. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Couldn’t what? Let me avenge my parents’ deaths?”

“No,” Steve replied, somber in his memory of that day. “I couldn’t let you lose yourself.”

Tony snorted, but he didn’t throw any of his cynical repertoire. He dropped his chin, looking down in furrowed contemplation. Maybe Tony knew that, deep down, he was right. At least, Steve hoped he saw it that way. He never wanted Tony to go down that path. And, he believed Howard would be heartbroken if Tony became a murderer.

Steve took a breath. While he could not undo his misdeed against Tony, he could start amending their shredded bond of friendship with an apology. “I’m sorry it ended that way.”

Tony inhaled sharply, picking up his head, but not looking at Steve. The hurt from Siberia kept him distant, the scar cutting back open with every second they spent in each other’s company. Steve saw it on Tony’s face. The world greatest defender couldn’t look at him even in the eye.

A simple apology was not going knit back their friendship. Steve knew it. Only time healed wounds as deep as theirs, along with acceptance and strive to be better. Steve meant what he wrote in the letter. He’ll always be there for Tony, whenever he needed him. Even when the young Stark didn’t think he did.

Which reminded Steve… “Congratulations to you and Pepper,” he said to Tony. “For the engagement and the baby.”

Tony lifted his brows knowingly. “Fury?”

Steve confirmed with a nod. Fury told him the moment he came back from the United States. Steve was thrilled to hear Tony was going to become a father. Thought it would be good for the man to have a family. Tony, despite his cold and closed-off attitude, was a man who became emotionally attached easily once he decided the person was important to him.

Tony cursed under his breath. “Figures,” he remarked. “For a spy, he’s not good at keeping secrets.”

“Didn’t know it was a secret to keep,” Steve commented. “It’s all over the news.”

“Fury shouldn’t have told you.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Steve sighed. “Tony—”

His grievance was cut off when the door opened again and a teenager strode into the lounge, rambling. "Tony—I have a question to... to..."

The teenager fell flat, eyes enlarged as he stared from Steve to Tony. Steve now recognized the teenager. It was the same kid he rescued from Ross at that school in Queens. Peter Parker. Spider-man.

"Oh my god—Captain America!” Peter gasped in wonder. “You're here. I mean, hello, sir! I mean," he brought his hand up in a salute. "Captain America."

Steve chuckled at the Peter’s bumbling words while Tony only groaned. "You don't have to do that, son," he discouraged Peter from keeping the salute up. "You can call me Steve."

Peter embarrassingly dropped his salute. "Sorry, I just... I never know how to greet you... not that I expected you to see me again. Not after everything that happened," he rambled on. "Which I am really sorry about. You know, for kicking and punching you. You didn't deserve that. And, sorry for being such a jerk to you too. I was just... out of my mind, I guess. I'm really sorry. I admire you greatly and hold the greatest respect to you. You're like the greatest hero of all—"

"All right, kid," Tony interrupted, silencing the young hero. "He gets the picture. You're sorry. Don't need to keep rambling on about it."

Peter swallowed. "Yeah, yeah, of course," he said. "Sorry."

"It's nothing," Steve assured the kid. "I didn't take it personally. The kicking and punching that is. I understood."

Peter's face blushed, but he gave a tight nod of gratitude. 

Tony snapped to the kid. "Okay, I know you didn't come all this way to schmooze over Cap, so what do you want, Crockett?"

Peter startled, blinking a bit before remembering why he showed up. He approached the bar, which Steve found odd for a young kid to be standing at. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Fire away," Tony said, hand gesturing for the kid to speak.

Peter rested his crossed arms on the bar. “Well, you see, tomorrow the decathlon team has a competition in the city and I want to go," he revealed. "So, I was wondering if you would let me go."

Tony was taken aback by the request. "Why do you need my permission?" he questioned. "It’s your aunt you need to ask.”

"I did," Peter clarified. "She said she doesn't see why I couldn't go, but the problem is that... well, I don't have a car."

Now Steve understood Peter's request. And it seemed Tony did too. 

Tony shook his head in absolute finality. "I'm not lending you a car," he pointed. "You don't even have a license."

"Well, I thought that maybe Happy could—"

"Happy’s busy," Tony returned. "I don't have any other drivers that can take you into the city. They will all be busy."

"What about an Uber?"

Tony chortled. "An Uber can't access these grounds."

"What if I go outside the grounds?" inquired Peter, looking hopeful. "Meet at the gate and then I can go—"

"No. Absolutely not," Tony reiterated, louder. "Another time, kid. Not tomorrow. We all got a lot of things going on and can't babysit you."

Peter scrunched his face, soured. "I don't need a babysitter. I'm sixteen!"

"That won't stop the press from hounding you," Tony argued. "Look—it's safer if you don't go out alone. That's all I'm saying."

Peter sunk. His mouth turned down, looking away in a loud sigh. Steve recognized the irritation of being trapped within walls. After all, he experienced the same when hiding out the past two years. Peter had been cooped up long enough. It must be harder for a kid to live in isolation than an adult. 

An idea came to mind. Steve turned to Peter. "Why don't I take you?"

His offer was met with silence. Steve knew they heard. Their dark eyes turned to him in one slow motion. Steve met one pair with inquisitive suspiciousness and the other with bright hope.

"What?" Tony demanded.

"Yeah, what?" Peter repeated, perking up.

"I can take him," Steve said again. "I have nothing going on at the moment. I can take him into the city for the day."

Peter's face lit up from that growing, eager smile. "Really?" he asked, glowing. "You'll take me?"

"Why not?" Steve said with a shrug. "I have nothing better going on and I would like to visit my old city again. Where's this... decathlon at?"

"Brooklyn Tech," Peter answered. "In Fort Greene."

"Oh—yeah. I know that area," Steve said, remembering Fort Greene in the early 1940s. Most likely changed since then. "I can take you. See what all the kids do these days instead of playing baseball in the streets."

Peter swung his legs over the stool in excitement. "Oh great! Thank you!" he said, hopping down. "I'm gonna go tell Ned."

Before Peter even reached for the doors, Tony made a rather surprising announcement. "You know what?" he said as Peter stopped at the doors, "I'll go. Pepper keeps telling me I work too hard. Need a break from things. I'll come with you."

Peter's eyebrows pinched in confusion. "I thought you were busy?"

"Yeah, well, it's nothing someone else can't do," Tony claimed, to which Steve couldn't help the escaped resignation in his breath. 

Peter glanced at both of them. "Did I... I don't know," Peter looked unsure again. "I'm not stepping on anyone's toes, am I?"

"No, Underoos, you aren't," Tony assured the kid. "I'll go with you. Not to worry."

"What about Captain America? I mean Steve?" Peter corrected as he gestured to him. "You don't have to come if you’re busy. He can take—"

Tony waved in dismissal. "No, it's all right," he said, pulling out his Starkphone and typing away. "I'll clear my schedule and we can go. Tomorrow. Say… noon? Grab lunch downtown?"

"But I—"

"It's okay, Peter," Steve reassured Peter. "My feelings aren't hurt."

The assurance on his feelings didn't soothe the anxieties the kid emitted. He kept glancing between Tony and him, as if they both asked him to pick the favorite parent. It was obvious Peter admired them both, but Steve was aware that Peter's favoritism leaned toward Tony. He brought Peter into their secret club and raised him as a hero. Steve had no hand in that certain upbringing. All he did was save the kid's life and kept him away from Ross's greedy hands. He had no stake in Peter's life, and yet, the kid liked him. Liked him enough to not want to throw his feelings aside. 

Peter then clapped his hands together in the same manner Tony did when demanding attention. “You know? We should all go,” he counter-offered, much to the surprise of the two adults. “Yeah! It’ll be like…a guys’ day out sort of thing. My aunt takes them all the time with her friends.” He turned to Tony. “I know you said Happy can’t join, but maybe Rhodes can?”

“Um…” Tony hummed, trying to find a way to get around this, but nothing came. Not even to Steve’s mind either.

Which meant Peter interpreted it as agreement. His face burst into a grin. “Great! I’m gonna call Ned and tell him,” he said, grabbing the doorknob and yanking the door open. “He’s going to be stoked.”

And like that, Peter Parker ran out on both Tony and Steve, leaving them stumped and slightly impressed.

“Well,” Tony began, crossing his arms as he stared at the closing doors. “I think we may have fallen into a trap.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

* * *

It was noon the next day and Steve stood in the garage filled with Tony’s car collection. Each car a unique design and worth over a hundred thousand dollars. A motorcycle used to be amongst the collection. An old Harley. The one he used to drive around town when he lived with the rest of the Avengers.

While the motorcycle was gone, Steve did appreciate the fact Tony never touched his bedroom. It remained untouched. Even the last record he ever played was still hooked on the turntable. Unfortunately, that also meant the cleaning personnel never entered the room. A film of dust laid on the furniture and stale air circulated the room, but it was his old things. None of it packed and thrown out of sight. Time was frozen in this room. Much like him.

The garage doors opened and the sound of wheels speeding through the garage warned Steve to move aside. He stepped off and Tony pulled up his orange Audi R8 car he loved to drive.

The brakes squealed in front of Steve. The window rolled down. “Get in loser, we’re going shopping,” Tony shouted from the driver’s seat.

Steve rolled his eyes. He checked the backseat and didn’t see the kid. “Where’s Spider-man?”

Tony shrugged. “His aunt’s talking to him,” he said. “Picking him up in front. So, seriously, hop in.”

Steve ducked into the sports car. The moment the door closed, Tony hit the accelerator, forcing Steve to grab onto the dashboard to stop himself from slamming his forehead. As he straightened in his seat, Steve heard Tony snuffle a chuckle.

Mature, Tony. Real mature.

They drove outside and around the corner, pulling up to the front. Peter was there. He was playing with the straps of his backpack. Standing beside him was a beautiful, red-headed woman. She was talking to him. Something serious by the look on both their faces.

They stopped talking when Tony drove the car up to them. He put it in park. “Gotta get out of the car if you want the kid to get in,” Tony said.

Steve followed Tony’s advice and hopped out. The chill of the autumn air brushed against his face, but his beard kept the goosebumps from rising up on his skin. Peter and the woman approached them. The woman kept fixing Peter’s jacket and throwing a hat on his head.

“Aunt May—” Peter moaned, trying to dissuade her from shoving a pair of glasses on his face. “I don’t need these!”

“I want you to wear them,” the woman—Aunt May—said. “Keep you unseen in the crowd.”

“That’ll be impossible with Tony and Captain around,” Peter argued, pulling the hat off his head. “I’ll be fine.”

Aunt May was unconvinced. She shot her head up, directing her eyes on Steve. “I am holding you and Mr. Stark responsible for my kid,” she stated, her finger pointed right at Steve’s face. “No drinking. No drugs. No strip clubs,” She specially said the last one to Tony. “No gambling. No surrounding him with models or… or swimsuit models. No spoiling him with gifts. No letting him drive the car. No playing with fire. Or guns. Or knives. Or—

“Ma'am?” Steve politely interrupted her ongoing list of don’ts. Aunt May closed her mouth, but the firm line of determinism was set on her face. “You have our word that we will keep your nephew safe. We won’t take him anywhere inappropriate or dangerous.”

Aunt May took a deep breath and glanced down at Peter. “Okay. He better come back in one piece or I’ll kill you both.”

Her words brought shivers down Steve’s spine. Never doubt a mother’s ferocity. Or in this case, an aunt’s devout love of her child. He had no doubt that if anything happened to Peter, he and Tony would likely die terrible deaths.

“Yes, ma'am,” Steve nodded, signing off his agreement to lay down his life for her nephew. “He’ll be in good hands.”

“Aunt May… you’re scaring them,” Peter muttered, quite embarrassed by his aunt’s overprotectiveness. “It’ll be fine. It’s only for a few hours.”

“I still want you to take these things,” Aunt May stuffed the glasses and hat in Peter’s backpack. “Text me when you get into the city. Text me wherever you go. I want to know.”

“I will,” Peter promised as he stepped away from his aunt.

But Aunt May pulled him back in a hug. “Okay, be good. Don’t get into any trouble,” she said to him. “I love you.”

“Love you too, and I’ll be fine,” Peter reiterated again. “I’m with Iron Man and Captain America.”

He pulled away from his aunt and went to the car, passing Steve as he hopped in the back seat of the Audi.

Steve comforted his aunt. “You have our word,” he avowed. “I’ll personally keep an eye on him.”

“We both will,” Tony called from the other side of the car. “We’ll keep you updated if anything changes, May.”

Aunt May nodded gratefully. “Okay. Okay… it’s just… I don’t want to lose him,” she said. “Keep him safe. I want him back home by nine.”

“Will do,” Steve said and he stuck out his hand. “I’m Steve Rogers by the way.”

May returned the gesture and shook his hand. “May Parker. Peter’s aunt.”

“He’s lucky to have a strong and devoted aunt,” Steve complimented. “Again, don’t worry, Ms. Parker. We’ll take good care of him.”

“Thank you,” May said with a sigh of relief.

Steve wished her a goodbye and got back into the passenger seat. Tony said his farewells to May, asking her if she could check in on Pepper and make sure she was doing well. May promised she would.

Tony got back into the driver’s seat and roared the engine back to life. “All right,” he said, dropping his colorful sunglasses over his eyes. “Where do we want to go first? I know a great place by the park. Marea. Best Italian food! Usually they don’t take walk-ins, but I know the owner and chef. Won’t have to wait at all.”

“Um… actually,” Peter spoke up from the back, “I was thinking we can head to my old neighborhood? There’s a really good place on 31st street. Can we go?”

“Why not?” Steve said before Tony could argue against it. “I’m sure you would like to have a taste of home.”

Clearly outnumbered, Tony forfeited his idea of a fine eatery and drove out of the compound.

* * *

“This is not a place I expected to ever be in,” Tony commented as he sat in a booth, flipping through a menu that listed almost every dish to ever exist.

Peter was next to him, eyes glancing from one item to the next.

Steve sat across, his cushion a bit lumpy, but no complaints considering he had the whole seat to himself. The menu contained the main diner classics like burgers, chili, chicken fingers and breakfast all day. Already the waitress came by to take their drink order. The poor girl struggled to take the orders. Not because they were indecisive, but she couldn’t stop staring or shaking. Eventually she got the orders written down and stiffly walked away to get them their drinks.

Tony slapped the menu down. “Going for the burger,” he decided and turned to the kid. “What about you? What meal made you dying to come here?”

“I’m going to get the pancakes with a side of bacon,” Peter answered.

Not exactly the answer neither Steve nor Tony expected. “What? Not the Spider-man hamburger?” Tony teased, pointing to a section of the menu. It was the kid’s menu. And it really did have a Spider-man inspired menu item.

Peter peered at the menu item and lit up. “What? Are you serious?” he said, bringing the menu close to his face, delighted at the idea. “That’s so cool!”

“My only question is why we don’t have one?” Tony poised. “They have one for you. The Rugrats. Something called Superman. Mickey and Minnie. But no Iron Man breakfast. They should make one.”

“They named it after me because I’m from Queens,” Peter boasted. “I bet Steve has a menu item somewhere in Brooklyn.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Steve replied over his menu. “I haven’t been back in a while.”

The waitress returned, carrying three glasses: tap water, Coca-Cola and a seltzer. The drinks sloshed from side to side as the waitress tried her best to keep her hands still as she transferred them from tray to table.

She listed off the drinks, handing the seltzer to Tony and the Coke to Peter. Steve ordered the tap water.

“Thank you,” Peter said when she handed him his drink.

His gratitude brought a huge grin on her face and rose her confidence. “Have you decided on what you wanted to eat or do you need a few more minutes?”

“Yeah—I actually have a question,” Tony said, pointing back at the kid’s menu. “Why is there no Iron Man dish on the menu? I mean, seems like a perfect title for any dish. Breakfast, lunch or dinner.”

And the waitress’s confidence dimmed. “Oh, um… I don’t know,” she said, nervous. “I can ask the manager…”

“He’s only joking, miss,” Steve relieved her. “No, I think we are all ready.”

They all ordered their meals and the waitress scurried away with the menus. Tony instructed the waitress to double Peter’s order (“You will complain about still being hungry, kid. You’re getting a double.”). No longer distracted, Steve took the time to survey the layout. The diner wasn’t very large. Yellow wallpaper on one side and white brick on the other with dark wood paneling. A few tables were occupied. Every now and then, the other patrons’ eyes glanced in their direction, whispering among their fellow patrons around the diner.

It must be shocking to see two Avengers and Spider-man sitting at a booth, enjoying a meal. Not a normal occurrence at all. Even for them.

“I can’t believe they named a dish after me,” Peter said, ecstatic.

“Don’t get too excited,” Tony advised. “It’s a kid’s dish. Only get excited when Ben & Jerry’s names an ice cream flavor after you.”

“You have a Ben & Jerry’s flavor?”

Tony nodded. “Most of the old Avengers do.”

Steve nodded. His flavor was Captain America Star-berry. Basically, plain, old strawberry ice cream with a mixture of other berries. Tony’s flavor was Stark Raving Hazelnuts.

Peter, however, wasn’t dispirited. “Maybe I’ll get a flavor one day too.”

“Not until you become an Avenger,” Tony revealed to him. “And that won’t happen until you’re twenty-one.”

Peter groaned, slouching in his seat. “Wait—you weren’t kidding from earlier?” he said. “I thought I became an Avenger after all this.”

Tony snorted. “No, not even close,” he said. “Sixteen is too young.”

“He’s right, son,” Steve agreed with Tony. Peter was too young to be involved in the Avenger’s mess. Not that Peter’s own problems were less stressful, but no need to add more burden onto him. “You should enjoy life as a teenager.”

“I already told him that,” Tony claimed.

“Then I’m supporting it,” Steve returned and he looked back to Peter. “Don’t rush to be a grown-up quite yet.”

“Exactly! Don’t grow up. It’s a trap,” Tony joked.

Peter stared between the two of them, thunderstruck by their united front to disavow him a title as an Avenger. “Why can’t I be an Avenger?” he inquired. “I mean… aren’t the Accords being re-written to include me?”

“Not in the way you think,” Tony corrected and then recited. “The clause states super-powered individuals under the age of twenty-one cannot be forced to reveal their identities, but may have the right to certain vigilantism under a mentorship with an Avenger.

“Therefore, you are not an Avenger. Not yet, anyway. You’re an… Avenger-in-training,” Tony concluded. “I’m your sponsor. I mentor you. Get it?”

Peter dutifully nodded, but Steve recognized the dejection in the boy’s posture. He’s seen it many times in his who eyes in the days he was constantly rejected from the army. In a way, Peter reminded Steve of himself at the age. Young and spirited, wanting to serve and protect the little guys. And he refused to stop because others told him so.

Sounded a lot like him. “Don’t worry, son,” Steve said. “You’ll have your chance to save the world. Maybe even the universe.”

That lifted Peter’s spirit a little. “Until then, I keep my head down and just play with robots?”

Steve laughed. “Better than being paraded around as a mascot.”

Peter didn’t seem to understand what he meant by that. He drew his soda close to him and took a long sip through the provided straw. The waitress returned with a round tray, filled with plates food.

She set it down on the table across from them and passed the plates over. She listed off the items, handing their dishes to them. Peter rearranged his two plates of pancakes to fit it appropriately so that it didn’t invade his or Tony’s portion of the table.

The waitress seemed pleased that she got everything done. “Do you need anything else?”

“We’re good. Thank you,” Steve said and the waitress blushed before she walked away.

They ate their meals. Tony mostly teased Peter, joking on the boy’s awkward growth spurt. Not that kid got that much taller. He was around the same height as Tony, maybe an inch taller. Peter, luckily, took it in good stride. Must be used to Tony’s humiliating jests. Or he never took it seriously. Either way, it didn’t rub the kid wrong at all.

Peter shoved the last piece of pancake in his mouth. “So, Cap, what infantry unit were you in during World War II?” he asked.

“I wasn’t in one. Not officially,” Steve answered, patting his lips with the napkin. “I was a member of the Howling Commandos.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter suddenly remembered. “That’s right. With Barnes and Morita.”

“You know Private Morita?” Steve was impressed the kid knew his old comrades name.

Peter nodded along. “Yeah, everyone in Midtown does,” he said. “His grandson is the principal. He always talked about his grandfather being a hero and fighting alongside you.”

Steve never realized that Jim had a family. It shouldn’t be surprising. Most men after the war started families. Why wouldn’t Jim or Dum-Dum? Because he didn’t have a family? After all these years since World War II ended, Steve never settled down. He didn’t get the chance. One battle after the next. It wasn’t meant to be for him. He was meant to serve his country. To serve humanity and he would do it until his death. Most likely.

He had no regrets on it when he looked across the table and saw Peter. The future was secured. New heroes, like Peter, emerged from their footsteps and, in that way, Steve understood that was where his legacy would live on.

“He was a good man,” Steve finally said. “A bit of a rascal, but a good man nonetheless.”

“Yeah, he was a bit.”

Steve piped his eyebrows up at the comment. Peter sheepishly explained. “My uncle was a big fan of yours,” he said. “He collected the comics when he was younger. In fact, my first ever action figure was of you. It used to belong to him when he was a kid. Passed it onto me.”

Steve was humored. He’s seen a few comics and a variety of action figures carved to his facial similarities. “I would love to meet him,” he said. “Is he back at the compound with your aunt?”

And that’s when Steve knew he said the wrong thing. He watched the kid dissolve into a quiet grief. His limbs limped, body falling against the booth as his eyes went heavy in their sockets. “He died. A couple years ago,” Peter murmured. “By a mugger.”

Steve inhaled, eyes flashing to Tony. Stark already knew this. He too went quiet, eyes cast on the kid in sympathy. Tony knew that loss well. They all did.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I bet he was a good man.”

Peter numbly nodded, but then immediately jumped out of his seat. “I’m going to use the restroom.”

Before either of them could say anything, the kid was gone, disappearing behind the male restroom door.

“You son of a bitch.”

Steve turned back to Tony. “What?”

Tony snarled more than he spoke. “Why the fuck would you bring that up?” he snapped. “What? You didn’t know his uncle was dead?”

“How would I know?” Steve countered. “I haven’t had the chance to speak to him about his life until now.”

Tony dropped his forehead in his hand. “Didn’t you hear the past tense in his sentence?” he argued. “Or the fact that his uncle wasn’t there with May at the front?”

Arguably good points, but Steve never considered it. Perhaps the man was working or somewhere else. He didn’t know. “I didn’t know. I’m guessing you did?”

“Yeah. Of course. It was in his file,” Tony said, matter-of-factly. “Orphaned. Raised by relatives. Uncle shot and killed. The kid’s life hasn’t been easy, Rogers. So—don’t mention about his family. Okay?”

Steve got it. After all, he too grew up with limited family when his father died and his mother followed him into death when Steve turned sixteen. He remembered the grief and loneliness of living with no parents. He was lucky to have Bucky with him. Otherwise, Steve didn’t know if he would have healed after his parents’ untimely deaths.

“I won’t,” Steve promised just as the bathroom door opened.

Peter returned to the booth. His eyes were a bit blotching, but no one commented. Tony offered a fry to the kid, but Peter shook his head. “I’m good,” he said. “Full actually.” His eyes looked to Steve. “Sorry about that. Um, yeah. Uncle Ben was a big admire of yours. Told me bedtime stories about you and the Howling Commandos.”

The corner of Peter’s lips twitched up. A happy memory brightening the kid’s eyes. “Uncle Ben used to tell me that him, my dad and a bunch of other neighborhood kids would pretend to be you guys and have this ‘war’ with these other group of boys in the neighborhood,” he said as the smile took form. “He would have liked to have met you.”

Steve shared the smile with Peter. “I would have like to meet him too,” he said. He meant it too. Peter’s good character was a testament to his family’s values. And based on Peter’s grief for his uncle, the man was loved and respected. That was a person Steve would gladly share a drink with. “You still got that action figure?”

Peter shook his head. “No, the government seized our belongings and property, but Agent Ross is working on getting it back for us.”

Steve jerked. “Agent Ross?”

“Big E,” Tony grunted, popping another fry in his mouth. “No relations to Thaddeus.”

While Steve relaxed, Peter did not. He sat up, eyes twitching a bit as he scanned the area. A nervous energy wound around the kid, leaving him alarmed. He looked back to Steve, but stared beyond him. “Looks like we have company.”

Steve craned his neck over his shoulder. Peter was right. Two taxi cabs pulled right up next to the diner’s front doors. Two men piled out of the first cab, followed by a man holding a large camera in the second cab. Dressed in slacks and ties, they brushed off any signs of wrinkles and moved to the diner. The bell rang, alerting their arrival. Their narrowed focus zoomed around the diner until it spotted them.

How did the kid see them coming?

“Shit,” Tony muttered. “This wouldn’t have happened in Marea.” Tony ushered the kid out of the booth. “Switch with me, kid.”

Peter and Tony quickly switched their places before the two reporters and cameraman came to their table. Tony promptly pulled Peter’s hood up over the kid’s face before he faced the reporters.

“Sorry—we’re closed,” Tony snarked to the two reporters. He turned to the cameraman. “TV series isn’t being picked up either. Apparently, there’s already a show called Two and a Half Men.”

The reporters were well aware of Tony’s distraction techniques. They ignored his jibs and fired off questions like war hungry soldiers.

“What brings you in the neighborhood?”

“Captain America? Are the other rogues back in the country?”

“Are you to face any consequences for your actions?”

Such questions were to be expected. The media portrayed him and his friends as war criminals, despite the fact they didn’t attack a country or anything. He defended the life of an innocent man. As how that translated to being a war criminal, Steve didn’t know.

The reporters believed in the guilt by their curiosity to learn of what was to become of him. They pursued for answers, narrowing their questions into specifics to find the truth of what justice the former hero would receive for his betrayal. At least, from their perception.

He wasn’t alone in the interrogation. Tony also received the firing squad. They grilled him on the new Accords, security against alien technology, and his responsibility for some incident at Coney Island. Tony wasn’t ruffled by their intrusion. He responded with snide remarks and quips, almost enjoying his taunts to the reporters. His answers said nothing of the subject, but a lot of what he thought against them.

Steve opted to ignore the questions. He knew better to engage. Some fights aren’t worth it. And this was not worth a fight.

Until the reporters turned to Peter.

“Peter! Peter Parker! Are you still experiencing nightmares?”

“Do you plan to move back to Queens? Are you going to stay with the Avengers?”

“Are you an Avenger now?”

“Peter! Will you look over at the camera? Jeff! Get a picture of him!”

To Steve immense surprise, the cameraman leaned over the table, shoving his heavy camera right into Peter’s face. The reporters thought nothing of it and kept pestering the poor kid.

“Parker! Look at the camera! Why aren’t you answer our question? A little gratitude for our efforts to make you look good—”

That was it! Steve abandoned his seat to tower over the reporters. He crossed his arms, his frown deepening the longer he glared down at them. Tony also stood up, shoving Jeff away from Peter and blocking the young hero from the reporters.

“Get the fuck out,” Tony snarled.

“We have every right to ask questions in regards to public interests,” argued the reporter.

“We entertained you enough, gentlemen,” Steve claimed, less hostile than Tony in his voice. “I’m asking you nicely to leave.”

One of the reporters turned back to Jeff. “Are you capturing all this?” he asked. “Make sure you get it.”

Steve and Tony moved to stop it, but a voice rang out on the other side of the diner. Everyone turned to see the other patrons standing up from their tables. From buffed men with hard faces to smoothed-face women to young college students—phones out most likely to record—banded together, glowered at the intruders who dared to disturb their dining ambience.

“These men giving you trouble, Captain? Iron Man?” the biggest patron asked as they shuffled closer to the showdown. “You good, Spider-man?”

The reporters suddenly grouped together, cowering at being confronted. “We don’t mean any trouble. We just want to report the news.”

“And they want to eat their meals without cameras in their faces,” grunted the patron.

“They aren’t the Kardashians or Vanderpump Rules,” claimed a young woman, her lipstick bright pink. “Leave them be!”

The patrons murmured in agreement. The reporters and Jeff the cameraman grouped closer, rethinking of another argument to win their right to stay when the kitchen doors flew open and a mad-looking cook stormed out. In his hand was a butcher knife.

The cook jabbed the knife in the direction of the reporters. “Want them out!” he shouted in slight, broken English. His accent heavy and his apron smeared with grease stains and meat juice. He kept snapping at the reporters as he marched across the diner.

“Out! Out! Out!” the cook demanded. “Gone! All of you!”

The waving knife convinced the reporters to duck out. They scurried out of the diner, dodging the glaring patrons who shouted at them as they passed. The bell at the door rang and went silent once more.

Steve and Tony said nothing. Just breaths as they took in what occurred. Steve admired the cook and the patrons. It eased his heart to know that humanity was still full of compassion. It proved to him again that his faith in humanity was well worth it.

“Thank you,” Steve said to the patrons. “Really.”

“Gotta look after each other, right?” the buffed man replied.

Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

The patrons all sat back down at their respective tables. A few gave little head nudges of support before returning to their meals. The cook lingered by the door, glaring at the retreating reporters before he strode back through the diner. He stopped at their table, looking very apologetic.

“Sorry for them,” the cook gestured to the doors. “Meal on house.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tony waved the kind offer away. “Seriously. We’ll pay for the meal. Thank you for what you did. Much appreciated.”

The cook didn’t give up. He pointed to himself. “Give you dessert? Yes?”

“Sure,” Tony compromised. “We’ll take a slice of cake then.”

The cook beamed and returned to the kitchens. Steve and Tony settled back in their seats. Tony peeved, fuming over the reporters intrusion into their life. “I’ll have my lawyers call their offices,” he said. “Those son of bitches… they don’t understand boundaries.”

“Language,” Steve quipped, gesturing to Peter. The kid didn’t need that language to be around him.

Tony brushed it off. “He’s heard worse, I’m sure.”

Peter was pretty quiet. He hadn’t said anything. He pulled up his backpack from the floor, digging through it. A minute later, he pulled out a baseball cap and a pair of lenseless glasses. He stuck the hat on his head and placed the glasses over his eyes.

Tony sighed. “Kid—you don’t need those.”

“It’s okay. I’ll wear them,” Peter commented, dropping his backpack on the floor. “Why did they do that? Are they allowed to do that?”

Tony shook his head. “Sometimes… journalists can be a bit invasive. Some never understand the rules of civility or respect for that matter. Many follow the ‘ends justify the means’ sort of thing. Like those two guys.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Don’t worry about it, son,” Steve advised. “We said nothing, so they have nothing to print.”

“Plus, the college girl over there video-taped the whole thing,” Tony gestured to the woman working on her laptop once again. “She’s probably uploading the whole thing and bashing those reporters. You’re good kid. Like Steve said, don’t worry about it.”

Peter resigned, dropping his head against the brick wall. “I don’t want to be in the media anymore.”

Steve and Tony glanced to one another. Shared pity for the boy. No one liked being the gossip or main attraction of the public eye. For a sixteen year old, it wasn’t a healthy environment to grow-up in.

Tony inhaled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I get it,” he said to Peter. “I do. Really. I’ll contact the lawyers to see if we can get some sort of restraining order for the press. Keep them at a certain distance. I’m sure there are rules about harassing a kid.”

Tony was probably right, Steve thought. Most likely the press had rules in regards to interviewing children under a certain age. And if there was anyone to win against the press, it would be Tony Stark.

The cook kept his promise and returned with three slices of chocolate cake. They all thanked him and enjoyed the cake, pushing out the incident with the media out of their memory. Once done, Tony paid the bill and gave an extra tip to the waitress and cook.

Tony gestured to the back. “We’re going out the other way,” he said. “I don’t want to be jumped by reporters.”

Steve and Peter didn’t question it. Tony was a professional. They trusted his judgment. They asked the cook for the back door and he happily showed them the exit. It was where they dumped all the trash. Tony scrunched his nose up and moaned about ruining his loafers.

“It’s this or the front,” Peter reminded him.

Tony sucked it up and climbed over the pile of garbage bags. They followed Tony’s lead, stepping where he stepped as they too climbed over the garbage bags as the stench rose every time they moved a garbage bag. Tony led them out of the alley and back against a wall that led them to the car. As they secretively left the diner, Steve saw a horde of other reporters arriving at the scene, trying to peer through the diner’s glass windows for them.

“Cap!” half-shouted Tony to get his attention.

Steve followed Tony again, keeping Peter between the two of them as they returned to their parked car.

They slid into the Audi, closing and locking the door. They all released a heavy sigh of relief together. They said nothing. Simply reeling from the wackiness of today’s surreal experience.

Then, a soft chuckled enveloped the car. Steve arched a brow to Tony. It didn’t come from him. He wasn’t laughing. They both looked over their shoulder. Peter reclined in his seat, a silly grin on his face as he tried to smother his fit of laugher.

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologized to them. “That’s just… that’s my first time running away from the press.”

“And hopefully your last too,” Tony pointed to him in the rearview mirror. “I’m not going to exit out with the trash ever again.”

Tony reared up the engine. He put the stick in drive and dropped his classic sunglasses. “Never again,” he said one more time, before he hit the accelerator, driving straight out of the area.

* * *

Once Tony was satisfied to leave his Audi in the hands of the parking lot attendants, they entered Brooklyn Tech. Steve hasn’t been in a school building since the attack on Midtown, but it looked the same as that school. It was a stone building with every window covered with protective bars that were similar to windows of jails. The inside was a bit dark, the cheap bulbs unable to produce enough light. The lockers were old too. Blue-grey with dents and scratches to show the age. They have been through hell and back, surviving every child’s teenage years. And they remained as sturdy enough to keep going.

They stopped by the stairs where a student sat behind a table. He was messing with his phone, not paying attention to anyone passing him.

Steve went up to him. “Excuse me? We are here for the decathlon event.”

“Up the stairs and to the right,” the student responded, not once lifting his eyes or finger off his phone.

They followed the student’s instruction and found themselves in a small auditorium room. There was a raised platform with two tables up front. A podium positioned directly in the middle. There were three rows of twelve seats that Steve assumed to be the audience seating. They were simple fold-outs. Nothing that would have been found in the compound.

Tony glanced around, frowning. “This is it?” he questioned. “At least tell me there is a bar?”

Peter’s eyebrows bunched together. “It’s a decathlon meet,” he said. “Not an award’s ceremony.”

“Concession stand?”

Peter shook his head. Tony inhaled sharply, looking the room around again with a new horror. Steve steadied Tony with a hand on the shoulder. “Let’s go find seats, okay?”

“Actually, can I go see Ned first?” Peter asked, gesturing to the curtained staged. “Want to wish him and the others good luck.”

“Sure,” Steve didn’t see a problem for Peter to say a quick hello to his friends. “We’ll grab seats.”

“Don’t be long though,” Tony said to Peter. “I’m not going to go on some Find Peter adventure again, capiche?”

Peter nodded, but Steve questioned whether Peter heard him. He had a dopey grin on his face as he sprinted off, disappearing behind the curtains.

Steve and Tony went on to find seats for themselves. A few parents were there as well, talking amongst themselves. None of them noticed them. A relief. Great relief, to be honest. Tony walked down the rows, judging each seat to determine if it was the best seat for him. He wanted good seats and he almost found something wrong with every chair Steve offered.

“They are all the same, Tony,” Steve groaned. “Pick one!”

Tony dropped in a chair. “Here. Perfect view of the stage, while also a great way to escape if necessary.”

Steve humored Tony and took the seat next to him. “So… what exactly is a decathlon meet?”

“It’s where kids show off how smart they are,” Tony answered. “Not the most exciting thing to do on a Friday night. But, hey, you wanted to come.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah, well, couldn’t leave him with a grandpa as a babysitter,” Tony commented, popping a Tic-Tac on his tongue. “Still have that aftermath taste of the burger.”

Suddenly, Tony’s phone blared to life. It was loud. It drew everyone’s attention, interrupting their pleasant conversation. Tony pulled out his phone, ignoring the parents’ scowls at the rude behavior of not having the phone on silent upon entering.

Tony answered. It was FRIDAY. “Sir? I have narrowed the results to your previous request to 546,000 results,” her voice announced. “Would you like me narrow the search on Dead Pool more?”

Steve curiously looked over Tony’s shoulder. “Why are you searching for Deadpool?” he questioned, studying FRIDAY’s results. “Don’t tell me you’re considering him for the team?”

Tony whipped his head to him. “Him?” he turned in his seat to face him directly. “You know what dead pool means?”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, remembering what Clint said about the man. “The ‘Merc with a Mouth’. He’s a mercenary. Works out of New York City, but does jobs around the country and world.” Steve paused, dread spreading through his body. “Why? Please don’t tell me you want him to be involved—”

“Shut up!” Tony spat as he rearranged himself in his seat.

Steve was taken aback by Tony’s abrupt change when a shadow joined his. Steve wondered what made Tony snap when a shadow joined theirs. He looked over and saw Peter sliding in the seat next to him.

“Hey—what were you guys talking about?” Peter asked. “Not about me, I hope.”

“Nope,” Tony responded. “Cap was asking too many questions and I really just wanted to play this level of Candy Crush in peace.”

Steve gave Tony credit. He was quick and sharp as he presented himself. Steve nodded his head along to the lie. Tony’s reaction to Peter’s arrival informed Steve that Tony didn’t want Peter to know anything about Deadpool. Good thinking, considering the man was as mad as a dog with rabies (again, Clint’s words). Steve wouldn’t let Deadpool come within ten miles near Peter if a quarter of what he heard about the mercenary was true.

“Hey! Kid?” Tony called for Peter. “Did you text your aunt?”

Peter’s eyes widened in remembrance. “Oh… no, not yet,” he said.

“Best you call her,” Tony said, “but do it outside the room. These folks aren’t fond of cellphones.”

Peter took off, heading to the hallway. Which Steve imagined was what Tony wanted. Once Peter was off, Tony’s hand snatch Steve’s arm. “When we get back to the compound,” he dangerously intoned, “we are going to talk and you are going to tell me everything about this Dead pool.”

“Deadpool. One word.”

“Whatever,” Tony scowled. “Now, shut up. He’s coming back.”

On cue, Peter came down the row and back into his seat next to Steve. “Talked to Aunt May,” he said to them. “She happy we made it and that Pepper is doing well.”

“Good,” Tony flashed a smile. “Now—tell this old fart how an academic decathlon works.”

Steve gave Tony another exasperated look that was becoming more and more common between the two of them. But, he gladly listened to Peter breakdown how a decathlon team, engaging with the boy with questions so he would be able to follow along the competition.

Ten minutes left, a man took the podium and requested for people to take a seat. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced. “Welcome to the Semi-Finals of the Academic Decathlon! Today, Brooklyn Tech will be facing off against National champions, Midtown Tech.”

Steve settled in his seat, leaning back as he watched youngsters take the stage. For once in his life, he wasn’t Captain America or Steve Rogers, the puny boy desperate to join the army. He wasn’t some nomad, wandering and fighting off against terrorists in different pockets of the world. He was Steve Rogers, sitting with an old friend, watching a group of high school students compete in an academic battle. He had a kid next to him, pointing out the competitor’s best player. It felt so normal. Like a life he may have had if he never crashed the plane and became frozen. One with roots and things outside Avengers and war. It was peaceful, serene and enjoyable.

Steve could live a life like this. He wished he could.


	8. Harry Osborn

Harry Osborn was used to being ignored by his father. In fact, everyone would say Harry had no parents. He lived on his own, in a fancy penthouse apartment with a butler who followed to every whim of his. And that was when Harry lived at home. Most of the time he spent his life in historical boarding schools, far away from his father. He appreciated it. It was the nicest thing Norman Osborn has done for him. 

Then his father swept that great life right out from under him. Harry came home for summer break, excited at the possibility of sailing to Hawaii with his friends or participating in drag races down by Strip Lane. Harry planned for an adventurous summer vacation in California when his father announced they were moving out. No more California. No more bikini clad women walking the sidewalks. No more fresh ocean smell. Nothing. Norman declared they were moving the base of the company back to New York City, which meant that he too had to move.

Harry argued on the behalf of hid education, claiming a new school at such a time would hurt his grades and GPA. His father wasn't fooled. He mocked him for his low grades and his rascal behavior as signs that Harry needed a new start anyway, which was why he signed Harry to attend a public school in Queens. Midtown Tech. 

The idea of attending public school mortified Harry, but not in the way one may think. The idea horrified him because it meant that he had to return home every single day. The concept horrified Harry. To see his father every day was equivalent to torture. 

Despite Harry's attempts to convince his father to let him stay in California, he found himself moved among the thousands of boxes being moved across the country. Rather than living at a beach house, he now lived in a penthouse apartment, overlooking Central Park. Instead of a warm breeze, he got a chill crawling up his body. The worst part of it all was the commute to the school. Nearly an hour long. Each way. 

The school was different too. It was like in those teenage films. Cliques of all kind roamed the halls with lockers and school spirit decorating the walls. What tickled Harry the most was that the trophies weren't for any sport teams, but for nerdy clubs. In fact, most of the after-school activities revolved around some sort of academic focus. 

Principal Morita greeted him and gave a run-down of the school. "You are lucky to come when you did, Mr. Osborn," the Asian principal said. "We had an opening in your grade."

Harry didn't find himself lucky and silently cursed the student who left the vacancy. He joined his fellow classmates, walking from class to class. It was hard to make any new friends, especially at his age. Not that he had a lot of friends at his other school. To be honest, he never considered them friends. Just kids he had to hang-out with to survive.

Until he met Ned Leeds. The kid was as lonely as him, and they quickly bonded. It was the first time Harry actually felt comfortable being himself in front of another person. Being an Osborn didn't matter to Ned and Harry was grateful for it.

Harry also joined the decathlon team. It was something to do and Morita told him he had to participate in some kind of after-school program. He tried out the first thing available, which was the academic decathlon. It had an opening and tried out for it. To his immense surprise, he won the coveted seat. The best part of the win was that the president of the decathlon team was Michelle Jones. A pretty girl in his grade who possessed a sharp wit along with a dry sense of humor. She was often serious and Harry did his best to get her to break, but she only gave him the middle finger or threats. 

Despite his worries that he would hate the school and not have any friends, it turned out Harry didn't mind Midtown at all. He made the two closest friends he ever had in his life. 

But his happiness was threatened by the reemergence of Peter Parker. 

Harry feared what would happen if Peter ever returned to Queens. Would Ned toss him aside? Would he lose his spot on the decathlon team? Would he be kicked out of Midtown? It was a worry that others would find ridiculous, but to Harry, it was valid. Harry basically took over Peter's life. He befriended Ned, took his spot on the team and even his placement in their grade level. It wouldn't surprise Harry at all if Peter demanded all those things back. 

So when Peter made that surprise visit to the school, Harry's mind plunged into icy waters, freezing up as everyone erupted into a frenzy of happiness. Even Michelle ran off to meet Peter. And their interaction proved to Harry that he was long forgotten. His fears only dissipated when Peter informed him that he would not be coming back, which meant Harry was safe. While everyone else was saddened by the news, Harry smiled. 

Nothing changed much after that day. Peter was out of reach and Ned relied on him for friendship. But there was more talk about Peter Parker. The whole school went crazy over Peter Parker's return. It was all anyone talked about. Even the teachers slacked in their lessons to discuss and gossip about Peter's homecoming. Harry found it fairly outrageous, but dared not to say it aloud.

Things died down a few days later, but Ned still talked about Peter. Almost texted him every day. Sometimes it seemed like every hour. But today, no one had their phones with them. Michelle confiscated them to get them focused on the upcoming meet against Brooklyn Tech, their arch-rivals. Not only that, it was the semi-finals. If they wanted to hold onto their trophy and championship title, they had to beat Brooklyn Tech, including the supposedly smartest kid around—Cody Connell. 

They were backstage at Brooklyn Tech, drilling each other with questions to prep themselves. Harry and Ned quizzed each other. " _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead'_ s two motifs are what?" Ned questioned Harry.

Harry bit his lower lip as he thought. "Art vs. reality and... ridiculousness."

"Uh... they were actually looking for absurdity."

"Same thing," Harry said, looking around until he spotted Michelle. She caught him staring and glared. "Why is she so serious about this?"

"Oh... Michelle? Because this is her first year as president," Ned said. "She doesn't want to be the person that loses the title."

"We won't," Harry said. "Honestly, you guys are the smartest people I have ever met and I attended those rich, private schools for years. This team has it in the bag. Just got to walk out of the store."

Ned chuckled. "I wish, but Cody Connell is on this team. He's the smartest kid in the world. He won a National Merit scholarship. Already he's already been accepted to MIT, Stanford, Harvard and even Cambridge. He's a genius. Heard his IQ is around 160."

Harry snorted. "IQ means nothing. You can be the smartest person in the world and still not survive out in the real world," he commented. He should know after listening to all the stories going on at Oscorp. "Anyway, he's just one guy versus all of us. Shouldn't be hard."

Harry checked out the other team. They all too radically nerdy for his taste. Dark glasses pressed tight up against their faces, ties choked around their neck like a hangman's noose, and braces shining from their mouths, made Harry cringed. Those poor kids wouldn't have survived at his old boarding school. 

Ned sighed heavily. "Yeah, well, last year, we ended with a tied game and had to go onto a lightning round. One person from each team had to answer five questions. It was intense."

"Who won?"

"We did," Ned answered. "That's why we went onto to Nationals. But... if it happens again, I don't know if we'll win against Cody."

Harry looked back to the kid named Cody. Dark haired, pimply face and awkward gaunt, the kid hardly looked intimidating. Harry knew his father wouldn't consider the man anything, but a nuisance. A man who lacked confidence was a failure of a man. His father's favorite quote to him. 

The curtains in the corner of the stage ruffled, distracting Harry for a moment. He wondered if it was the presenter ready to get the show started. But, a kid with a greyscale jacket, navy hat and rim glasses appeared, eyes bouncing around the stage until he spotted them.

"Ned!"

Ned turned and his eyes glowed. "Peter!"

Ned went to Peter. Harry held back, taking his time to approach the famous Peter Parker. Ned was already blabbering away. "I can't believe you made it! This is awesome!" Ned said. "Wait—what's wrong with your eyes? Are you blind again?"

"What? Oh—no," Peter took off the glasses and folded them in his hand. "Just part of a disguise. Hi, Harry... right?"

Harry was surprised that Peter called him out or even remembered him. Harry tempted to glance over his shoulder to make sure he was talking to him. "Yeah," he said, shaking Peter's hand. "And you're... Peter?"

It was a slip of the tongue. His father always told him he needed to watch his mouth, but Harry sometimes couldn't help it. It was instinct.

But, Peter didn't take it as an insult. He laughed. "Wanted to wish you guys good luck. You're going to do great."

Ned didn't looked encouraged. "It's Brooklyn Tech, Peter," he said, jerking his head to the Brooklyn team. "Cody Connell is there."

Peter peeked around Ned. "So what?"

"So what?" Ned flabbergasted. "Peter—he knows every question to ever exist in the universe. We barely beat their team last year!"

"But we did."

"Yeah, but we had you then! You beat him in that lightning round."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at Peter. He was the champ that knocked Cody off and got the team to Nationals. No wonder he was hero-worshipped by everyone on the team. Not only was he Spider-man, he got them to Nationals.

Peter shrugged off Ned's remark. "You don't need me to win. You guys already proved that point," he reminded his friend. "You can win again without me."

Ned looked dejected, shoulders dropping low, but nodded in concession. "Yeah... okay. It would be less nerve-wracking if you were on the team."

"I don't think so," Peter grinned. "You wouldn't know if I would show up or not."

Ned laughed and Harry stood there like a fool, not knowing what the hell they were talking about. Some inside joke he wasn't privy to knowing. Suddenly, a loud call came from behind them, shouting at one of them.

"Hey! Loser!"

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Michelle. She strode up to them, arms crossed. Her eyes narrowed on one person. "Decided to show up on time for once, Parker?"

Peter shoved his hands in his pocket. "Yeah, I know."

"Staying for the whole thing?"

"Of course," Peter said. "Someone's got to be out there as a distraction to the other team."

Michelle rolled her eyes just as Mr. Harrington came back from speaking with the host and ordered attention. "Gather around," he called, beckoning them to circle around him. "Oh—hey, Peter. Thanks for joining."

That got everyone to weirdly stare at Mr. Harrington until the teacher recognized his mistake. "Right. You can't participate," he said. "So, um, never mind then." He clapped his hands to start over. "Anyway, now I know Brooklyn Tech is our toughest competitor, but we beat them last years. We can beat them again this year."

Except this time they didn't have Peter Parker, Harry sarcastically commented in his head. 

"So, let's do our best," Mr. Harrington ended his pep rally. Not exactly the confidant boost they needed.

Peter wished them all luck and slipped back behind the curtain to return to his seat. The presenter announced a five minute warning and everyone started to get into position. Across the stage, their competition kept goggling at them with gaped mouths. Harry didn't know why, until Flash yelled at them across the stage.

"That's right!" Flash boasted. "Spider-man is with us!"

* * *

The victory came in not the quite spectacular showdown Harry imagined.

Although it ended in their favor nonetheless. All because Michelle got an historical question correct before Cody did. It gave them the extra two points needed to win.

They weren’t kidding about Cody though. The kid was like the Internet, but he lacked charisma. His responses were monotonous and dull. Almost as if he was bored. But he wasn’t. Sweat crowned his head and the jittery eyes told all of the seriousness of the meet.

The team wanted to celebrate their victory to _Eddie’s_. Harry planned to go.

“You coming?” he asked Ned.

“Yeah, I think so,” Ned said after a moment. “I’m gonna ask Peter if he wants to come.”

And Ned left his side to find Peter.

Harry turned back to the group, smiling and congratulating one another for a job well-done. Harry sidled up next to Michelle. “Congrats, Miss President,” he said. “You did a fine job leading these brave men and women.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “Is that your best line?”

“Not a line,” Harry swore, crossing over his heart. “Giving you your rightful dues. We won because of your leadership.”

Michelle’s gaze narrowed. “Thanks… where’s Ned?”

“Off with Peter somewhere… I think.”

Michelle cast a look around the room. “Oh—there he is.”

Harry followed Michelle’s gaze and saw Ned standing beside Peter, energetically talking to each other. Michelle moved and Harry followed, walking up to the two old friends and joining their chat.

Peter spied their approached and flashed a proud smile. “MJ—you did great,” he congratulated her. “Told you had this.”

Harry caught the corner of Michelle’s lips twitching upwards. “Are you waiting for me to give you credit for helping me go over the sixties’ space revolution?”

“Uh… no.”

“Good,” Michelle answered and Harry detected no hostile tone in her speech. Her gaze never wandered from Peter’s face as she continued speaking. “Are you coming to _Eddie_ ’s with us or what?”

Peter nodded. “I want to,” he said, “if you’re okay with it. Don’t want to intrude.”

Michelle nonchalantly shrugged. “Don’t care.”

“Cool!” Peter said, “Better ask first though.”

Harry squinted, befuddled. “Ask who?” he was curious who else he needed permission from in order to order a shake.

Peter suddenly got bashful. “Oh, um…”

He never answered for a calm voice intercepted his speech. “Ready to go?”

Harry, Michelle and Ned craned their necks back to gape up at the imposing figure who hovered over their group. The man was tall, bearded and buffed. It reminded Harry of a bodyguard and wondered if he was assigned to Parker. After all, Harry remembered having a “bodyguard” around him when he was in middle school. It was his father’s way of keeping him on a leash.

But Peter didn’t act bothered or dismissive of the man. His eyes shined up at him. “Everyone’s going to _Eddie’s_ to celebrate,” he told the man. “Can I go?”

The bearded brushed his jawline. “I don’t know. I don’t see why not, but Tony may have something else in mind.” The man turned his gaze from Peter to the three of them. “Congratulations. That was a fine victory you all won.”

For a bodyguard, he sounded far too polite and worldly. A man who lived a simple life. But the way Peter respected and admired the man, it would almost appear the man was some kind of god.

And then, Ned's eyes widened. His mouth stuttered like his brain malfunctioned. "You... you...”

“Yes,” the man smiled. “I am—”

“You have a beard!" Ned blurted.

Peter elbowed Ned in the arm. "Dude!"

But the man laughed it off. "You say the unexpected," the man responded. He stuck out his hand toward Ned. "It's good to see you again, son. Under better circumstances too."

Ned’s hand slowly rose to shake the man's hand. "I can't believe it," he uttered. "Captain America remembers me."

It was Harry's turn to fall into shock. That was Captain America. Him! He didn't look anything like in the papers. All the clean-shaved appearance grew into a rugged bush, a man with more burdens and scars than before. As Harry studied the man, he found that Ned was correct. It was indeed Captain America. With a more wild and gruff appearance.

Captain America nodded. "Of course. How could I forget the brave boy who tried to save his friend's life?" he said. "You did the right thing, son."

Ned's face turned bright pink and his body went sluggish, knees wobbling. He tried to say something else, but couldn’t spit it out. Too shell-shocked to even breathe.

Harry patted him hard on the back. “Breathe, buddy,” he commented. “It’s only a soldier.”

That snapped Ned into action. He erected his back and snapped a salute to the captain. “Sir!”

“Don’t do that,” came another voice off to the side. “He’s no longer a captain.”

Harry turned to the voice and used all his strength to not mutter a curse.

Tony Stark sauntered up to their group, purple sunglasses on and phone twirling between his fingers. He slipped the phone in his pocket as he stood beside Peter. He clapped one hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“Congratulations on your win,” Stark said to them. “Pretty impressive with all the bell ringing. Quite the team.” Stark eyed Ned. “How you doin’? Ned—right?”

Ned froze up again. His mouth hung open as his eyes rounded on Iron Man. Harry, however, was not infatuated with Iron Man’s presence. He’s heard of the great Tony Stark. He basically grew up on stories of the famous Stark family. The Starks were renowned for their arrogance, apathy and callous conduct. His father specifically loathed Tony Stark. Called him a fraud and a sell-out all the time. A phony too, and Harry grew up to believe it as truth as he witnessed through the Stark’s exploits as the eccentric billionaire.

Tony Stark kept that easy smile until his eyes met with Michelle. His smile faded to a somber expression. “Miss Jones.”

“Mr. Stark,” Michelle evenly replied.

Harry glanced between them, wondering how Tony Stark and Michelle Jones knew each other enough that Stark regarded her with fear and respect.

“So—what are you kids up to?” Stark questioned. “Off to some kegger party to celebrate? Don’t worry. I won’t call the cops.”

Captain America slapped Stark’s arm. “Stop trying to pollute their minds,” he said. “Peter said something about an _Eddie_ ’s?”

Stark thought. “Doesn’t sound like a bar.”

Captain America rolled his eyes. “It’s a soda shop,” he said. “Peter wants to go.”

Stark sighed and checked his watch. “Fine. That’s fine,” he decided. “Peter, you can go with your friends. Cap and I have to talk about… business.”

Captain America jerked his head to Stark. “What? Stark—we aren’t supposed to—”

“It’s fine,” Stark insisted in a more serious tone that indicated no more discussion. “He’s more than capable of taking care of himself.”

Captain America looked unsure, ready to argue when Peter, who uneasily glanced between the two of them spoke up. “You’re not going to—”

Stark shook his head. “No. Not at all,” he diffused whatever worry Peter held. “Nothing like that. Okay, here,” Stark pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and shoved it into Peter’s hand. “Take this. Cap and I will only be close by. Two minutes away. Tops. Stay close to your friends. Don’t draw attention. If you get into a situation, you know what to do.”

Peter nodded along to whatever Stark said, agreeing to follow his instructions. “Um, Mr. Stark? Tony? I don’t need the money,” he claimed, trying to give the money back. “Aunt May gave me a twenty, so—

“Keep it. Spend it on your friends,” he said, gesturing to Harry, Michelle and Ned. “Now, have fun. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“And don’t do anything he would do,” Captain America added.

Peter smirked. “Stay in the gray area. I know.”

Captain America frowned, puzzled by the comment, but Tony Stark only chortled. “Yeah, kid,” he said. “Now—put your hat and glasses on, okay? Stay with the kids in your classroom. Don’t wander off.”

The two famous Avengers said their goodbyes and headed out to the front, where they slowly were being recognized by the other parents and onlookers at the meet. Peter threw on his hat and placed his glasses on his nose, becoming a nerdy version of himself.

Michelle laughed. “Like middle school,” she commented as they joined their fellow classmates through the school and onto the bus.

* * *

They walked through _Eddie_ ’s red door, spying around for tables to squeeze together for the group. The place wasn’t exactly packed. Stools at the bar were opened and a few tables scattered around the back were available for picking, but not enough to squeeze everyone together, so they all separated. Some took to the stools and others to the back-end of the shop. Michelle slid into a seat at a table as did Peter and Ned. Harry, realizing everyone wanted to sit with Peter Parker, rushed to catch the last seat. He slid into the chair right before Flash could drop his butt on it.

When Flash glared at him, Harry simply lifted his shoulders up innocently. “So… Michelle?” he quipped, ignoring Flash’s snips “What’s good here?”

“The ice cream and the shakes,” she answered. “Oh—and the candy. The fudge. The truffles. And their coffee as well.”

“That’s… basically everything here.”

“Yeah,” Michelle deadpanned. She looked to Ned and Peter. “I’m going to the counter to order. What does everyone want?”

“I’ll go with you,” Peter said, rising up from his seat when Ned stopped him.

“Actually, I better go,” Ned stopped Peter. “You know how specific I am with my order.”

Peter conceded with a nod. “Yeah, you are very detailed on it,” he agreed. He dug into his pockets and lifted the fifty dollar bill Stark gave him. “Use this though, okay?”

Michelle wrinkled her nose at the money, but Ned took it in one swipe. “Sure thing,” he said, getting out of his seat. “Still the Oreo shake?”

Peter nodded. Ned turned to Harry. “What about you?”

“Um… surprise me,” Harry answered, smoothly as he snuck a look to Michelle. “Apparently everything’s good.”

A stream of hot air exhaled from Michelle’s nostrils as she walked away from the table to the counter. Ned quickly followed with the money at hand, which left Harry with Peter at the table. Alone.

Awkward.

Harry had nothing to say to Peter. He hardly knew him. Based off first impressions, Peter acted shy and awkward, but friendly enough to not completely dislike on instant. He showed no falsity in his words, sounding sincere whenever he spoke. At the moment, he said nothing. He simply slouched in his seat, face half covered by his hat and glasses.

The silence bored Harry. He tapped his fingers along the table, bobbing his head to the beat. He glanced unceremoniously around the shop, avoiding catching Peter’s eyes. Peter kept himself busy too. He awkwardly traced the outline of the table, face pinched in concentration as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t quite know what to say. After all, their only mutual friends abandoned them for the counter to get their orders.

God… it’s been forever since Michelle and Ned left. How long does it take to order a drink?

“So, um…”

Harry lifted his head up to Peter. The famous Peter Parker decided to speak. Probably hated the awkward silence as much as he did.

Peter twiddled his fingers as he tried to find the words he wanted to say. Harry was humored. “Speak friend and enter,” he joked, again another slip of the tongue his father tried hard to slap out of him.

“Mellon.”

Harry stopped drumming. “What?”

“Mellon,” Peter repeated.

“No. I heard,” Harry said, scooting up to the table. “You’ve seen _Lord of the Rings_?”

Peter nodded. “Seen all the movies and read the books.”

“What about the Hobbit?” Harry questioned.

“Overdone,” Peter answered. “They should have only made it one film. I mean, three films?”

“I know” Harry responded with an amused smile. “A bit ridiculous to expand a single book into three films. I mean… it was such a boring mess!”

“I heard Peter Jackson didn’t have a clue what he was doing,” Peter said, drawing closer to the table and no longer slouching. “No pre-production or anything. Started off the ground running.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Harry agreed. “Nothing like the good, old classic _Lord of the Rings_.”

They drew into a deeper conversation about films. They shared an instant dislike to remakes. The classics were always better. Peter could quote multiple works of science fiction films from _Aliens_ to _Blade Runner_ to _Star Wars_ off the top of his head. A remarkable feat in Harry’s book. The conversation expanded onto books and scientific legends. Peter knew a considerable amount of scientific studies, something that would have soundly impressed his father. Harry also discovered Peter to be an apt engineer when Peter mentioned a robot he built and his desire to improve on it. Harry gave him a few suggestions and they started exchanging ideas.

Harry found himself at ease with Peter Parker. It was odd for him to make a connection so fast, especially with someone he never expected to befriend. Once one looked passed his awkwardness and fame, Peter Parker was a normal bloke like him.

Michelle and Ned returned, carrying a tray with delicious treats. Ned placed a massive bowl of ice scream down in front of his seat and handed Harry a banana split. Michelle passed Peter his milkshake.

Once the two settled, Michelle questionably gazed at both him and Peter. “What? Did we miss something?” she asked.

Harry pulled his banana split toward him and lifted his spoon. “Nah—just the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

* * *

It was unfortunate that the day in the soda shop couldn’t last forever. Eventually, they all parted ways and Harry dragged his feet back home. He took the long route home, idly walking down the avenues as he stopped every now and then to flip through a few magazines to pass the time.

Although, he should get home sooner rather than later. In case, his father was having one of those days.

He finished his stroll down Fifth Avenue and arrived back at the penthouse to a quiet serenity. The butler, Hammond, was dusting off the framed paintings that hung along the walls. “Hey, Hammond.”

“Good evening, sir,” Hammond responded. “You’re father beat you home.”

“That’s not surprising considering I had a meet after school today.”

Hammond merely hummed indifference. “I left your dinner on the counter,” he informed him. “You may need to heat it up.”

“Thanks.”

Harry meandered to the kitchen. He wasn’t that hungry, but better to eat now than wake up with stomach pains. Or, maybe it was better to skip it since his father sat at the table, reading the _New York Times_.

Norman Osborn lowered the paper and eyed his son. Those bright, green eyes Harry inherited regarded him with dissatisfaction. Harry sighed, wondering what he did wrong this time.

Norman folded the paper. “You’re late.”

“I had a meet.”

“What meet?”

“Academic decathlon meet,” Harry elucidated. “I told you about it. Asked if you would come.”

Norman sneered. “No you did not.”

“I did too!” Harry argued and immediately cringed. He should not have yelled at his father.

Norman’s face drew darker as he glared at his son. “Watch your tone,” he warned.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologized at once. “Didn’t mean to snap at you. Been a long day.” Harry went around the counter and found his dinner. He unwrapped it and put it in the microwave to heat.

Norman never took his eyes off him. “How did it go?”

“How did what go?”

“The meet that you supposedly attended this evening.”

Harry looked over at his father. “Oh, um, we won,” he said. “Beat Brooklyn Tech. Apparently, they are our arch-nemesis.”

Norman chuckled. “The idea that a bunch of nerds’ arch-nemesis is another bunch of nerds is ridiculous,” he cheekily mocked. “Back in my day, it was us versus the dumb jocks. And, we always won at the top.”

“Yeah, well, society changes with each generation,” Harry said as he timed his food. “Being smart is cool now.”

“It’s always been cool,” Norman said. “It’s the personality that makes a person unfavorable. Not the brains.”

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t going to debate his father tonight. “Yeah, well, you missed an intense competition,” he said. “Beat the team by two points. Celebrated afterwards.”

“And that’s why you took all this time to get home,” Norman hissed. “Went to some party? Had a couple of beers?”

Harry flipped up an eyebrow. “God, Dad—no!” he half-shouted. “There was no beer. It’s not their style. I went with the team to a soda shop. Hung out with them for about an hour and then got stuck on the train. It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal because I don’t like the idea of my son walking alone at night!” Norman shouted, smacking the table as he rose up from his seat. “This city is dangerous. It’s not safe anymore like it used to be with those silly costumed people flying about.”

“I wouldn’t say they were flying nor wearing any costume,” Harry remarked as the microwave dinged in report that his dinner was heated.

Harry carried his heated dinner to the table. Norman looked at him strangely. “What are you talking about? You acted like you just saw them in action.”

“Not in action,” Harry answered as he blew on his fork that pierced a piece of chicken. “But, yeah. I met Captain America today and Iron Man.”

Harry watched the muscles in Norman’s face tense. “What?” he growled.

“Yeah, they were at the meet,” Harry said as he bit into the chicken. He chewed and swallowed. “They came to watch us. Them and Peter Parker.”

“You met Peter Parker?”

Harry looked up at his dad. His father lightly clutched on the chair beside him, looking lost. His father’s eyes fluttered, trying to overcome the knowledge he received. It was a delicious moment for Harry to see his father stunned by the revelation.

But his father regained his composure. His sharp eyes back to him. “What was he like?”

“Who? Captain America?”

“No!” Norman spat, fingers curled into fists. “Parker! What was he like?”

Harry lowered is fork. Peter? Why did his father care about what Peter was like? “He’s… I don’t know. Fine, I guess. A bit awkward, but once you get past it, he’s nice. Smart too.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “I only met with him for an hour. What’s the big deal?”

Norman said nothing to him. He disregarded Harry as he walked around the counter in thought. He ran a hand down his face and muttered something incoherently.

Harry was about to ask his father if he was all right when Norman headed straight for the door in long strides. “I gotta go,” he said to Harry. “Get some work done at the office.”

“It’s nearly ten,” Harry said, checking the clock. “Can’t you wait—”

Norman didn’t stop to listen. He strode right out of the kitchen. He heard his father bark orders to Hammond and a few minutes later, Harry heard the familiar sound of a door opening and slamming shut.

Harry resigned, dropping his head in his hand as he poked around his dinner. What did he expect? Some quality father-son time? As he picked at his food, Harry envisioned living as a hero, fighting crime and teaming up with the Avengers to save the world. He dreamed of his father, beaming up at him and yelling, “That’s my boy!” He fantaized fighting alongside Captain America, Thor and Hulk, taking down the bad guys down and having girls fawn over him.

Well, one girl in particular.

“Sir?”

Harry jerked from his day-dreaming to find Hammond standing over him. “Sir?” Hammond tried again. “Are you done or do you wish to continue poking the meet to ensure it really is dead?”

Harry scowled at the low joke and shoved the plate to Hammond. “Yeah, I’m full,” he said and he hopped out of his chair and sprinted to his bedroom.

He flopped on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. If only dreams could become realities, he thought. Then, his father would be more like Captain America.

Harry snorted. That was never going to happen.

His phone beeped and glowed from inside his pocket. Harry dug it out and checked his screen. One new message.

He opened it and smiled. It was from Peter Parker. It read: _Hey! This is Peter. Just making sure I got the right number._

Harry typed: _Yep. This is Harry Osborn. The one and only._ He paused in his typing. _Will you be able to go to Ned’s house this weekend?_

And the two continued chatting until they decided to link in Ned to their conversation. Harry stayed up late into the night, texting Ned and his newfound friend, Peter Parker.


	9. Pepper Potts

“I mean—how did I not notice? I notice these things. I do. Don’t contradict me. Right? Maybe I don’t, but how did I not notice him?”

Tony rambled on his grievances since he entered their double-story apartment. Pepper was on the bed, listening to him rattled on and on how he missed such a vital piece in front of him the other day. Last night, KAREN informed FRIDAY that Peter was in communications with Harry Osborn. And FRIDAY was programmed to alert Tony on all information regarding to Osborn.

Tony didn’t take the news so well. Worst part of it, according to Tony, was that he couldn’t say or do anything about it without alerting Peter to their investigation or that he had KAREN spying on him.

“How?” Tony repeated again, shaking his head. “He was right there! Right in front of me and I didn’t even notice.”

“Well, you were a bit distracted with Steve’s arrival and Deadpool,” Pepper argued on his behalf. “Also, Harry doesn’t look like Norman.”

“Still the spawn of Satan.”

Pepper sharpened her gaze at Tony. “Anthony Stark—don’t you dare judge that boy based on his father,” she warned. “Remember how you felt as a kid being compared to Howard? Harry may be nothing like his father at all.”

Tony exhaled, fingers massaging his temples to decompress. “I don’t want to, but don’t tell me it’s not suspicious,” he contested. “He attends Midtown, befriended Peter’s old friends and even took up Peter’s old hobbies. Don’t tell me it’s not fishy.”

“I find it a bit weird, but I’m not going to treat Harry like a criminal,” Pepper defended as her extremely round belly constricted in another uncomfortable tension. She adjusted herself on the couch, lifting her legs up and reclining on a set of pillows. “Harry had nothing to do with the Parkers’ deaths. He was only a boy when it happened. He probably doesn’t even know that Peter’s parents worked for his father.”

Tony raked his hair with his fingers. He paced about the room, thinking. “I’m not saying he’s responsible for Peter’s parents, but I do think his enrollment and inclusion into Peter’s circle of friends isn’t random. I know Norman had a hand in it. A way to keep tabs on Peter.”

It wasn’t a far-fetched theory that Tony normally sprouted (then again, even those theories proved to be true). It wouldn’t surprise Pepper if Norman placed Harry in that school to dig up on any tidbit of news in regards to Peter while he was a fugitive from the law. It may be part of Norman’s overall plot to gather intelligence on Peter, but Pepper held doubt that Harry had an active role in his father’s plan. Harry was probably an unknowing accomplice to his father’s madness. That didn’t mean they should treat Harry with disdain or distrust. From what Pepper heard among their inner circle, Harry despised his father and that their relationship barely existed.

“Maybe, but let’s not worry about it at the moment,” Pepper said to Tony. “Nothing’s happened. Peter is still safe. Nothing happened to him other than a few stories from printed on the front page about his eating habits.”

Pepper learned of their Queens outing in the paper. Apparently, the media reported that Tony, Peter and Steve Rogers were ambushed by reporters as they tried to enjoy a peaceful lunch. A video captured the incident from the three reporters interrupting their meal to the chef throwing the reporters out of the diner. It was a clear favor in their books, but Pepper and May didn’t like how close the reporters got to Peter.

Tony bobbed his head side-to-side. “Yeah, well, I’m still worried,” he admitted. “It won’t end well. If we prove that Norman killed Peter’s parents… it won’t be good.”

No, it wouldn’t. A friendship would be destroyed. The sacred bond of brotherhood shattered by sins of parents. It wasn’t fair, but there was nothing either of them could do unless they told Peter the truth about their investigation into Norman Osborn and his probable involvement into the deaths of his parents. Something everyone, including May, was unanimously against.

Pepper merely lifted her shoulders. “What can we do?” she said. “Tell him the truth, or we support him when the time comes and hope their friendship isn’t ruined."

“Or we could nip it in the bud,” Tony suggested. “Convince him to stay away from the Osborn kid. Say the kid is a punk. A rotten apple. Not a good influence, etc.”

Pepper groaned. “Tony! You can’t say that and besides, when has that ever worked out with a teenager?” she raised the question to him. He didn't answer, so she did. “Never. Kids tend to do the opposite of what adults say. So, I say we don’t do anything yet. It’s not hurting anyone, and Peter and Harry aren’t exactly hanging-out every day. There's no need to get concern.

“So rest that weary head of yours, Tony,” she advised, turning on her Starkpad to the main page, “and lets actually talk about the important stuff.”

“What’s more important than keeping a kid safe?”

“Nothing, but Peter isn’t in danger,” Pepper reminded him again. “We should be more concerned with this Deadpool than Norman Osborn's kid."

Pepper learned of Tony's secretive outing to New Jersey from Everett Ross. The agent learned of Dr. Stromm's death and discovered that Tony and Rhodes were there when he died. Everett wasn't thrilled about Tony going behind his back and Pepper assured Everett she wasn't aware nor thrilled at Tony's disrespect to the team's decision. But, she did give him credit for finding their next clue before the Dr. Stromm died.

Everett heard of Deadpool, but not enough to know identify the mercenary. He promised to investigate the individual and hung up. Meanwhile, Tony already conducted his own investigation on the mysterious mercenary.

"Deadpool... apparently, he is more insane than Norman Osborn," Tony said, moving around the room again. "Clint said he's a class all on his own. 'Merc with a Mouth' he called him." Tony whistled. "If Clint calls him that, then it must be some wackadoodle. Fury was interested in recruiting this so-called Deadpool and had Clint assigned to him. But after three days, Clint returned and argued against recruiting Deadpool. Fury agreed. No questions asked. They still kept tabs on him, but they avoided associating with him at all cost."

"That's not good," Pepper said, wondering how deranged Deadpool must be for SHIELD and Clint to back off from him. "Tony, if Deadpool comes after Peter—"

"He won't," Tony swore. "I'll make sure of it."

Pepper narrowed her gaze, warily studying him. "Tony... what do you mean by that?" she questioned him. "You're not planning on going on anymore ‘guy trips' somewhere, are you?"

Tony played all innocent. "Of course not," he said. "I know better than to confront Deadpool without a far stronger back-up."

"Tony—"

"Honey, it's okay. I'm not going off to confront Deadpool," Tony avowed to her. "That would be reckless and stupid."

Pepper wrangled a brow. "Almost sounds like you’re describing yourself there."

"My old self," Tony countered. "I have responsibilities now. Like to you. To Peter and May. And to this upcoming Accord signing-meeting-thing we are hosting. When is it again?"

"It's in a few days," Pepper informed him as she reached for her Starkpad that was on the coffee table. "Guests will be arriving soon. The old team and some new members like Ant-Man will be coming to read, review, discuss and sign the new Accords. We need to get everyone and everything situated upon arrival.”

“Right.” He didn't look entirely thrilled at the prospect, but surrendered to it nonetheless. "Who's arriving first?"

“King T’Challa of Wakanda," Pepper replied as she scanned the schedule on her Starkpad. "He is coming in two days and the Dora Milaje requested an outline of security of the compound.”

“Fine.” Tony said, dropping on the couch. He lifted her swollen feet and placed them on his lap. He started to massage them as he occasionally did to help ease the discomfort of her pregnancy. “They can have it.”

“King T’Challa also requested another bedroom.”

“What?” Tony said. “What does he need another bedroom for?”

“Apparently, the princess is tagging along,” Pepper answered.

“Really? I thought one must always be in Wakanda?”

“You’re thinking of  _Game of Thrones_ ,” Pepper said, remembering they still needed to finish watching the last two seasons. The past two years have been busy for them to enjoy any down-time. “Anyway, I thought we could give him, his sister and their entourage the entire fifth floor.”

Tony waved his hand graphically. “Sure. Okay," he said. He dropped his head against the couch, letting out a stream of exhaust. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Everything," Tony replied. "From arranging meetings to coordinating travel with others halfway across the globe all while pregnant. I mean... how are you not completely exhausted?"

"I am."

"You don't look it," he said. "I look like I aged an additional ten years since last night and you look the same as ten years ago."

Pepper's cheeks turned a bit rosy. "Well, I guess I have good genes," she quipped. "Or I am just better at dealing with it than you. Hmmm, let's say both."

Tony favored her with a silly face. She shook her head and as she went to check who was coming next, she felt a little a pop near her bladder. She groaned. "I have to use the bathroom again," she complained, pulling her feet away from Tony. 

"Need help up?"

Pepper shook her head. "I got it. Need to get some exercise in."

She waddled to the bathroom. Since her belly's gotten larger, she had to go to the bathroom almost every hour. She found it annoying, but what could she do about it? Nothing until the baby was born and even then, her bladder won't be normal for another three months. 

She headed for the toilet, but already she started leaking. "Shoot," Pepper said, embarrassed. It was not the first time she didn't make it to the toilet. 

A cramp tore into her abdomen. She cringed, bending over a bit in reaction to the pain that followed. She continued leaking, but more. It came out of her in a rush, half of her legs were covered in what didn't look like urine nor smelled like it. 

It hit her. Panic froze her face and heart as she stared at the puddle underneath her.

“Tony?” Pepper trembled, watching the pale-straw colored water stream down her leg. “Tony…  _Tony_!”

* * *

“I’m right here, Pep. I’m right beside you.”

Pepper barely heard Tony’s words. Too busy concentrating on reining in the pain to listen to Tony. With each contraction came a domineering agony that tortured Pepper into submission. Those seconds of pain stretched into infinity and there was nothing Pepper could do.

“Breathe, Pepper. You gotta breathe.”

If she could, she would have snapped at Tony. Of course she knows to breathe! It was simply too hard to breathe as sharp pangs convulsed her lower half of her body. When the pain ceased, it was only for a brief moment to which Pepper tightly inhaled. Something kept patting her forehead. A cool, wet cloth dabbed the crown of her heard and she felt strands of her hair sticking to her skin. It did nothing to cool the heat burning in her head. It only irritated her more.

She snatched the cloth from the person’s hand. “Stop it!” she shouted, throwing it across the room.

Pepper dropped her head on the pillow. Another contraction broke her open and Pepper cried out, eyes shut as she closed off everything outside her body. She needed to focus. Concentrate on subduing the pain. Relax.

Another contraction burst onto the scene and it was devastating. Hers hands grabbed onto anything close, squeezing it to death as a scream reverberated within her and out.

A door opened and feet scurried. “Cervical dilation is good,” someone said. “Time to push.”

“What about the drugs?” Tony demanded.

“It’s too late for that. The baby is coming.”

Baby. Her baby was coming. Oh God. Oh God.

“Ms. Potts?”

Pepper weakly opened her eyes. Someone stood over her. Their face was covered by a green hairnet and green mouth mask. “Ms. Potts?” the nurse addressed her. “We need you to start pushing.”

They sat her up and Pepper instinctively knew what to do. She kept her chin down and rounded her back, forcing her abdominal muscles to assist her uterus in pushing the baby out. She bared down and, upon the doctor’s command, pushed as hard as possible.

“Good. Very good,” the doctor said. “Again.”

She pushed again. And again and again and again.

Pepper raggedly panted, unable to get enough air in her lungs to keep going. She fell back against the three tower pillow behind her back, face covered in sweat and all her muscles seemingly torn into pieces. She had no strength left. She couldn’t do it. For once in her life, Pepper couldn’t do it.

Tears welled in her eyes. “I-I can’t do this.”

Tony appeared in her line of vision. Lines stretched across his face, crevicing in distress. “You can do this,” he urged her. “Come on, Pep. You can do it.”

Pepper shook her head, crying freely. “I can’t,” she whimpered, eyes cast away in humiliation and defeat. “Tony—I’m sorry.”

“No, Pepper, don’t give up,” Tony pressed, brushing the wet strings of her hair away from her face. “You can do this.”

She shook her head, tears streaming all down her red face. “I’m not strong enough,” she muttered, looking at her weak, frail body. “I’m not like you. I'm no hero. I-I’m not brave. I want to be, but it hurts. It hurts too much.”

Tony’s hands cupped the side of her face, pulling her close so that their eyes met. Pepper struggled to look at him, not wishing to see his disappointment. But, Tony refused to let her hide away from him.

“You’re right. You’re not like me,” Tony started, looking longingly and lovingly at her despite her disheveled appearance. “You are far stronger than I ever could be. Braver than I ever will be. You, Virginia Potts, you are my hero.”

Pepper didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or smack him. She wanted to do all three to be truthful, but all she did was stare back into those dark brown eyes, falling into that gaze with love and hope.

Tony sucked in a breath. “I know you can do this. You are the most capable person I ever met,” he insisted. “You can do it. Just one more push.”

“Uh,” came the doctor’s voice, “not exactly.”

“Shut it,” Tony said from the corner of his mouth. He focused back on Pepper. “You can do this, Pepper. I got you.”

Pepper’s eyes flickered back up to Tony. “I got you first,” she muttered as she sat back up.

She deeply inhaled. Tony surrendered his hand to her. Pepper took one last glance at Tony. Together. They can do it together. Pepper bared down, pushing and squeezing every muscle in her body to get that baby out of her.

“Good,” the doctor said. “Keep pushing. You’re doing great.”

“Come on, Pepper,” Tony’s voice filled her head. “I believe in you.”

Pepper pushed again, screaming against the pain as her lungs expanded.

“I got a head!” the doctor exclaimed.

A head? Did he say a head? She frantically looked to Tony, whose face paled a bit, but he reassured her with a nod.

The doctor picked his head up again. “Keep going, Ms. Potts! Keep pushing!”

Pepper pushed and pushed. She embraced the pain, channeling it in her screams and through her connection with Tony. People cheered her on, giving her encouragement as the doctor kept repeating something over and over. But, Pepper didn’t hear any of it. All she heard was Tony’s voice and her own, telling her that her child needed her to stay strong.

And then a third voice broke through that barrier. A high-pitch wail that shattered the pain. The doctor was handed a pair of scissors and he snipped something right away. The wail continued and Pepper’s heart beat faster as she fell back against the pillows.

The doctor handed something off to a nurse, who wrapped it out of their sight.

“What’s wrong?” Pepper asked, her voice sounded so weak.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Tony insisted, but something must be wrong. She could still hear wailing. And everyone was ignoring her.

“What’s wrong?” Pepper demanded, trying to see among the sea of scrubs. 

The doctor turned back to her. “Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her, rising up from his stool.

The nurse from earlier returned, holding a wrapped blanket. She walked over to Pepper’s bedside, lowering her arms to reveal a tiny, pink face, squished into a fickle state. Its little nose twitched as the mouth opened and squeaked a cry.

“Congratulations,” the doctor said. “You have a beautiful baby.”

All the breath went out of Pepper’s body. That was her baby. The baby she carried for nine month and three weeks. Without thought, she lifted her hands, reaching for her baby. The nurse carefully slid the newborn into Pepper’s outstretched arms. But the baby was heavier than Pepper expected and her weak arms struggled to hold the stirring newborn.

Then a large hand slipped under her own, supporting Pepper’s hold so that she could embrace her baby. Pepper knew it was Tony. She didn’t even need to look to know. She drew her baby to her chest, elation at seeing her baby for the first time. She took it all in. A mass of dark hair overtook the baby’s head and its nascent eyes opened, staring endlessly up at her.

Pepper cried. She was a blubbering fool as overwhelming love consumed her. Even in her exhaustion, Pepper beamed, the old pain vanishing within seconds as the baby’s mouth rooted for milk.

An unsteady sniffle sounded behind her. Pepper pried her eyes away from the baby to look behind her. Tony was there. Hadn’t moved from his spot, but something was different.

Tears. Tony was crying. Not in sadness. Tony’s expression was one of awe inspiring as tears slid down his cheek. He snuffled again, brushing away at his eye.

“My dad’s right,” Tony uttered.

Pepper raised her brows. “What?”

He answered with a kiss on her temple, not at all disgusted by the sweat and smell. Pepper leaned into his kiss as she drew up their baby closer to both of them. She didn't know what Tony meant, but the unconditional love and wonder in Tony's gaze meant it was something good.

The baby let out a little scream and they both turned to it, smiling proudly and in love.

* * *

The doctor and nurses departed once they did the necessary measurements and check-ups on their child. They talked a bit about the baby’s health and what Pepper needed to do after that intense labor. Apparently, the birthing process lasted closer to two hours, which explained her weak state.

The doctors fixed up Tony's hand as well. During the last moments of the birth, her grip sprained a few of Tony's fingers. They were slightly bluish in color, but the doctor wrapped his fingers well and gave him an ice pack with instructions for care. Pepper apologized, but Tony dismissed it with a little, wry grin. "It's nothing that I probably didn't deserve at some point."

Once Pepper and Tony healed, rested and had time to spend with their little one, they decided it was time to reveal their newest member to their family. Avengers family at least, considering that Pepper’s parents were in Florida and haven’t yet arrived to meet their grandchild.

Tony went to fetch them. The doctor informed them that their friends have been out in the waiting from ever since she was admitted, which was at least four hours ago.

Pepper relaxed in her new room, holding her little one. The baby had fallen asleep, completely trusting her. She couldn’t believe how innocent and how vulnerable a little baby could be. As she continued admiring the baby, there was a knock at the door and Tony’s head poke in.

“Hey,” Tony whispered as to not disturb the sleeping baby. “You ready for visitors?”

Pepper nodded, waving him to enter. “Yeah.”

Tony entered and held the door open for the others to come into the room. The first to come through was Steve Rogers. Dressed in sweatpants and a simple grey shirt, he looked like he was aroused from bed to the come to the hospital wing, but he didn’t look at all tired. Next was Peter Parker. He had a few bags underneath his eyes, but the excitement kept him awake.

“Oh, wow,” Peter muttered in amazement as he moved further to make room for Happy, who followed him.

Then Rhodes came through the doorway, looking from Pepper to the baby to Tony with a proud grin on his face. He clapped Tony on the back. “Congrats man,” he said, closing the door behind him to grant them privacy.

“Thank you, but Pepper did all the work,” Tony commented as he went to stand beside her. “So, um, I guess this is when we reveal—”

The door opened again and a large, pink balloon swooped into the room followed by a frilly bear wearing pink bows in its ears. May Parker squeezed her way through the door, cheeks flustered red as she balanced the gift basket in her arms.

She set the basket on the visitor’s chair, giving a clear view to everyone what the sign read on the tower of diapers in the basket: It’s a Girl!

May brushed back her hair from her face. “Did I miss anything?” she asked as she went over to stand next to her nephew.

Tony deflated. “Well, there goes the surprise,” he muttered as everyone glanced from the gift basket to the baby in Pepper’s arms. “Yeah, it’s a girl. We have a daughter.”

A burst of congratulations came around Pepper’s bed. Everyone was pleased by the news, while a few were surprised that May knew of the gender before anyone else.

“I've known the gender since it the trimester,” May informed her nephew, who asked how she knew. “Pepper told me after her visit.”

True, she confided in May the gender of her baby. She was excited to be having a girl. Could use more girls around the compound. Plus, Pepper always wanted a baby girl. A daughter of her own. 

Rhodes peaked over the bed, looking down at the baby’s sleeping face. “Has your dark hair, Tones,” he observed. “I still hope she grows up looking more like Pepper though.”

“Funny, Rhodey,” Tony fired back. “She’s going to rule the world one day. Just you wait.”

Steve assessed the baby's face with a small smile. "You got a beautiful child, Ms. Potts," he commented. “What’s her name? This future ruler?”

Tony glanced to Pepper. “You want to tell them? Or should I?”

“I’ll do it,” Pepper decided and she shifted her little one in her arms so they all could see the baby.

Their reactions were funny. Steve’s face transformed into a big smile. May wrapped an arm around her nephew, pulling him to her side. Peter looked at the baby to Tony and then to Pepper, trying to find facial traces of them in the infant. He still looked star-struck, eyes wide at the sight of the baby. Happy had his hands in his pockets, relaxed and smiling almost like a proud uncle. Rhodey was the same with his hands clasped behind his back, taking in the darling picture of hers and Tony’s baby sleeping in her arms.

“Everyone, this is Maria,” Pepper introduced with a smile, “…Maria May Stark.”


	10. T'Challa

T’Challa spent far too long in an argument he should have known he would lose. Ever since he informed his little sister that he was to head to New York for a conference and possible signatory of a new accords, she pestered him nonstop about joining him. T’Challa repeatedly rejected her request, but her constant pressure wore away his stance and he finally caved into her demands.

Now, they sat in the royal air jet, descending into New York. Shuri wouldn’t stop fidgeting in her seat, her nerves bundled to the point he feared she would unwind and go crazy if that excitement wasn’t released soon.

“Have you been to New York, brother?” Shuri asked, peering out the window in hopes to get a glimpse of land. All anyone could see was clouds.

“Once. When I was younger,” he answered. “It’s not as… inspiring as our home.”

“Of course not,” Shuri said, “but I always wanted to see it. The Big Apple!”

T’Challa never understood Shuri’s fascination with American culture. The clothes, music, films and even slang, Shuri harbored a strong affection for American culture. His parents were humored, but never curbed her obsession.

The plane began its descent. They were almost there. "Sister--remember," he began. "This is a diplomatic trip. Not a vacation. Do not do anything to embarrass Wakanda."

"You mean you," Shuri bantered. "Relax brother! When have I ever been the embarrassment?"

The plane settled on the runway, riding it up until it came to a permanent stop. T’Challa got up from his seat and ushered his sister to follow. After the brutal deaths of their parents, they only had each other. So, they walked down the ramp together, a united front for the Wakanda royal family.

T'Challa noticed his sister scanning the landscape around them with a puzzled expression. "Where are all the skyscrapers?" she questioned in their native language.

“In the city," T'Challa answered in turn. "This is not actually Manhattan.”

And he watched Shuri physically deflate. Even the light in her eyes dimmed upon the horrible realization that they were not in the "Big Apple".

"I thought you said we were going to New York!" she cried.

“We are in New York," T'Challa replied as they walked over to where the Avengers' entourage awaited them. "Remember—behave.”

"I always behave," Shuri grunted, pouting over the trickery. Although, T'Challa would not call it a trick. He did command her to not to come on the trip, but she refused to listen. 

They approached the small welcome group and T'Challa immediately spotted Captain America. He was out in front, a little cleaner than he last remembered and less melancholy too. The good captain approached first and shook T'Challa's hand like old friends. 

“Welcome to America," Steve Rogers, Captain America, said with a smile. "I hope the journey wasn't too much of a hassle for you.”

“It was not," T'Challa assured him. "Although, my little sister is disappointed.”

Steve turned to Shuri. "You are not impressed, Princess?"

Shuri frowned. "I was told we were coming to New York."

“You are in New York.”

"She means the city," T'Challa clarified for the captain.

Steve understood. "The headquarters used to be situated in New York City, but we moved since then. Somewhere bigger for us," he gestured to the suite of buildings around them. "But, the city is not that far away. I'm sure there will be time for you to visit."

Steve led them into the compound. The Dora Milaje followed their king, erect and alert to protect their beloved royal family. The doors parted and they entered a lobby that resembled a sleek, modernized room with glass walls and chic, and white leathered seats. Another door opened and Tony Stark sauntered in, looking every bit the eccentric billionaire he portrayed in the media. Dressed for attention, he wore his signature glasses, hair well-groomed and sporting a dark coat that covered up a T-shirt of some band. He looked exactly like the man everyone described. 

“Mr. Stark," T'Challa greeted as they shook hands. "I am told you became a father two nights ago.”

“Rumors are true," Tony confirmed with exhausted eyes and a small, proud smile. "I'm a father despite many newspapers' disbelief. It’s why I am a bit late. Needed to change a diaper.”

T’Challa laughed as he found it hard for a man like Tony Stark to change a diaper. “You have our congratulations.”

He and Shuri stepped aside to allow two women to stride up to the king, carrying a rather large object that resembled a rocking horse. “Accept our humble gift," T'Challa presented the box to Stark. "I was informed that Americans celebrate newborns with gifts. Apparently, every American girl dreams of a pony?"

Tony nodded. "Stereotypically, yes, but—"

“I designed it," Shuri boasted with a proud grin. "To incorporate our two countries together, I based the animal on the symbol of Wakanda. It's a panther. I installed a replication of multiple panther sounds depending on the strength of the grip on the handlebars. It moves too rather than frivolously remain put.”

“Thank you. That’s, um, quite impressive, but… you know she’s only two days old, right?” Tony poised the concern to them. “Not two years old.”

“Girls mature faster than boys,” Shuri smugly replied. “And the gift isn’t for her now, dimwit. It’s for later.”

Tony's eyebrows arched high above his forehead as he glanced from the high-end present to Shuri. "You must be Shuri," he said. "I heard a lot about you."

Shuri narrowed. "You have?"

“Peter told me a bit," Tony responded, but he wasn’t looking at Shuri at all. His head turned in every direction, scanning the area. "Speaking of which, where is the kid?”

"Was he supposed to be here?" asked Steve.

“No, but figured he would come nonetheless,” Tony remarked, sliding his gaze over at T’Challa’s entourage. “Whatever… Your Highness, let’s show you and your—”

The same doors Tony walked through opened, followed by a pitter-patter as a teenager ducked into the room, looking a bit ruffled. His eyes flashed up to them. A giant grin splitting his face in recognition of the people in the room.

Peter Parker looked nearly the same as the last time T’Challa saw him. Young, boyish in appearance, but he had some meat on his arms that he didn’t have before. His skin a tad darker than last as well, but overall, he was still a skinny, white male. There was a sense of maturity in Peter, one that was missing when he first arrived in Wakanda nearly a year ago.

What T’Challa also noticed was the ring on his finger. Peter hadn’t removed it.

Lacking decorum, Shuri ran passed T'Challa to Peter. Before Peter even had the chance to properly greet his former guardian and instructors, Shuri snatched his hand and dragged him behind her as she ran onward. Peter let out a tiny yelp of surprise before he smartly went along with wherever Shuri directed. 

T'Challa shook his head. "You'll have to excuse her," he said, sighing as he watched his sister and Peter disappear behind the doors. "That poor boy. Still being dragged around by her."

"I'm guessing they got along well back in Wakanda?" Steve queried.

A little too well, T'Challa remembered, but he only smiled in return. "They are good friends," he answered before turning to Tony Stark. "Now, let me see your palace."

* * *

T’Challa lounged in an American, up-scale bar inside the compound. Tony was behind the bar, fixing his drink while Steve and he sat in plush cushions around a small table. He informed Steve of his friend’s prognosis. Shuri successfully freed Sergeant Barnes’ mind, but the good soldier decided to live on the farm outside the city, wishing for some peace before coming to terms of all the things his other persona had committed.

Steve was relieved to hear of his friend's return, thanking T’Challa for saving his best friend. But, once the relief wore off, the sadness crept into the captain. To have a friend return again only to have him walk away. The captain must live a lonely existence to have so many loved ones be taken from him.

But, the great, Captain America put up a strong front and thanked T’Challa again. “It’s about time I start returning those favors to you,” he commented. “Whenever you need one, let me know. I’ll come.”

T’Challa mentally took note of it and Tony Stark joined them. “So, tell me what I may expect in these new accords?”

“Nothing from the previous Accords remains. That has all been scraped,” Stark informed him. “The new document gives the individual more freedom. The government doesn’t have full control. There is an equal balance between responsibility and fault.”

“Such as?”

“No more tracking devices or genetic tests,” Tony listed off from memory. “No longer need to reveal legal name. Government can deny your assistance unless it is in regards to world safety and doesn’t break any of the human right laws.”

T’Challa lifted his drink to his lips. “Interesting,” he murmured. “What about you, Captain? What are your thoughts?”

Steve didn’t have a drink in his hand. He reclined in his seat, face drawn in a solemn matter. “I have yet to read the whole document,” he confessed. “What I have read so far, it doesn’t seem to be unreasonable.”

T’Challa flipped an eyebrow as he swallowed. “Unreasonable,” he repeated. “Yes, I imagine if anything else, you would not be sitting here today.”

The corner of the captain’s mouth slugged upward. “No, I wouldn’t.”

A quick siren sound erupted in the middle of the room. T’Challa got onto his feet, searching for any intruders. A voice came from above him, a woman’s voice that had no body to be seen. Another one of Stark’s AIs.

“Sir?” the embodiment voice said after the alert sounded off. “Everett Ross is coming.”

Not even a few seconds passed before T’Challa saw his old friend storm through the double doors. His face was blotched red, eyes like slits and the muscles along his jawline firm. He marched into the room, his glare targeted Tony Stark.

“You asshole,” Everett shouted, ignoring the fact there were others in the room. “You went behind my back—again!”

Tony didn’t get up from his seat. He merely took stock of Everett’s anger with a lazy acceptance. “You’re mistaken,” he claimed. “I’ve been in front of you all this time.”

T’Challa caught Steve dropping his head in disappointed exasperation.

Everett evenly stared at Tony with breathless indignation. “Don’t get cute with me,” he snapped. “I told you I would look into Deadpool’s activities, but nope. Not good enough for the great Tony Stark. What the hell do you think I do when I leave the compound?”

“I don’t doubt your dedication,” Tony replied, relaxed. “But you cannot expect me to wait. Not when my own system is as capable as yours to find someone. Maybe even faster.”

Everett’s stance didn’t change. “So, that’s how it’s going to be? Not working together anymore. You do your thing and we do ours? Is that how’s it going to go?”

“Don’t sound so upset, Big E,” Tony said, finally getting up in his seat to speak face to face with Everett. “We are on the same team. Just… doing different ways in going about it. You are taking the slow way—

“The legal way,” Everett corrected him.

“—and I am doing the fast way,” Tony finished. “One that will get Deadpool off the streets before he makes another fatal accident.”

T’Challa was at a lost. He didn’t know if they were discussing about the new Accords or something entirely different. He looked to Steve for guidance, but the captain had his hands over his face, tired of the bickering. It must occur often and based off Everett’s anger, too often for his liking.

“Or put more at risk!” Everett threw back at him. “Jesus Christ! How can either of us get anything done if you are willing to keep information from me?”

“I didn’t keep information from you,” Tony claimed. “I told you about Dr. Stromm.”

“Yeah, after you lied to everyone about not going to him.”

“If I hadn’t we wouldn’t have gotten the clue about Deadpool.”

“Did you ever think that maybe he was just pulling your strings?” Everett questioned. “That he only said ‘Deadpool’ to ensure you would go straight into a trap? Get yourself killed? Hm?”

Tony paused for a brief moment. “That… thought did cross my mind, but no. I don’t find it to be the case.”

Everett huffed, ruffling the back of his head as he finally took the moment to survey his surroundings. That was when he noticed T’Challa. “Your Highness!” he exclaimed, moving over to where T’Challa rose from his seat. “It’s good to see you again. I’m glad to find you well.”

“Likewise,” T’Challa shook his old friend’s hand. “Although, you don’t seem entirely well-rested.”

“Blame him,” Everett nudged his head in the direction of Stark. “He’s been keeping me up at odd hours of the night.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I did you a favor. I saved us time.”

“You did something careless and are simply lucky that you are not dead,” Everett retorted. “Deadpool—"

"What is a deadpool?" T'Challa interrupted, tired of being ignorant in such a heated debate.

"A  _who_ ," Tony corrected. "He's a hired assassin. Killed Peter's parents about a decade ago and may now be hired to kill him too."

Someone sent out an assassin to kill Peter? T’Challa struggled to believe someone wanted Peter dead. Peter was a good, kind boy, who selflessly went out of his way to ensure other people’s happiness and good fortune. It seemed impossible that he made anyone angry enough to want dead. Unless it was Thaddeus Ross, who wanted revenge against Peter for ruining his career and reputation.

“Is Secretary Ross behind this assassin?” T’Challa questioned.

Everett shook his head. “Not that we’re aware of. We think the assassin was hired by Norman Osborn and his former partner, Dr. Mendel Stromm.”

T’Challa’s brows crinkled in confusion. “Osborn and Stromm,” he repeated the names. He heard of Osborn in brief passing, but nothing of important except that he took over Stark's abandonment of military weaponry manufacture. “What do they have to do with Peter?”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Everything.”

Everett picked up after Tony and gave out more details. “It may appear that Osborn is responsible for Peter’s abilities,” he informed T’Challa. “And we fear that Osborn may have been involved in the deaths of Peter’s parents years ago. Apparently, the Parkers were informants to SHIELD before their deaths. The evidence we have… it looks like foul play."

T’Challa breathed, quickly analyzing the information he received. “So, this… Osborn… he wants Peter dead for what purpose?”

“To shut him up? To study him?” Everett listed off. “We don’t know. Not yet anyway.”

“Does Peter know about this?”

All three shook their heads. “Peter doesn’t know,” Steve revealed.

“It’s better that he doesn’t know," Everett added. "He’s been through enough as it is.”

After that year of hardship, T’Challa could imagine that the boy deserved some state of peace. “What are your plans to stop this Osborn?”

“So far? Find Deadpool. Get him to confess and point in Osborn’s direction,” Tony responded first. “Once that’s done, we go and arrest him.”

Everett scoffed. “No—that’s not how that works,” he countered. “It’ll take more evidence than the word of a nutcase. The Judge won’t go for it. We need hard evidence. A recording. A transaction of some sort.”

“You mean the exchange of cash only?” Tony said. “Yeah… good luck with that. You see, this is why we do our own separate things. You do your way and I do mine. In the end, I get us results.”

Everett streamed out a mutter of curses. “The point, Stark, is that we cannot simply take the guy’s word alone,” he argued. “It won’t be enough and he’ll go scot free and so will Osborn. Worse, Osborn will know we are after him and it might make him do something drastic. Which we don’t want.”

“Yet if we don’t do anything then that gives Osborn more chances to continue his plans!” Tony shouted. “He murdered Stromm for god’s sake!”

“We don’t know that he did it,” Everett argued. “Could have been someone else.”

“It was him,” Tony insisted. “I know it.”

“And now you see why we have to have the Accords,” Everett bitterly spat in Tony's direction. “You think you are above the law, but you’re not! You’re being reckless and endangering everyone with that attitude. Particularly Peter.”

Everett shook his head, incredulous at the mere discussion. “You know? Forget it. Our partnership is done,” he declared, heading back to the door. “I no longer have an obligation to keep you informed.”

Tony exaggeratedly spread his arms. “Like you know something I don’t.”

T’Challa saw a spark in the agent’s eyes. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder. “Really? So you also know that Deadpool is back in New York?”

And that got everyone to shoot their heads up. Every pair of eyes went straight to Everett, shock registering on every single face. Including Tony.

It appeared the great Tony Stark didn’t know everything.

Tony tried to speak through his stunned state. “W-What?” he said. “He’s here?”

Everett innocuously shrugged. “Classified, Mr. Stark,” he said. “You will have to read the news in the morning.”

Everett grabbed the doorknob, opening the door to leave. Tony sprinted forward, yelling at someone called Friday to stop the agent from leaving. “Wait! Wait… hold up,” Tony shouted as he leapt over the last chair to confront Everett.

“Okay… okay,” Tony said, blocking Everett. “Maybe we can work something out. Look—I realize I’m not the greatest…um…”

“Team player,” Captain America completed.

Tony pointed to Captain America. “That,” he said, cringing at accepting the answer. “I’m not exactly a… ask questions first type of guy. I don’t wait. I don’t… um…”

“Have a lot of patience,” Steve filled in again.

Tony snapped his fingers to the captain again. “It’s really weird that he knows this much about me, but _yes_ ,” he said, looking at Everett. “I march into a room and blow it up. It’s my way of dealing with things.”

T’Challa watched Everett furrow his eyebrows. “That’s not a good tactic.”

“Yeah, Cap and I already had a debate about that,” Tony brushed the comment aside. “Look—point is that you’ll need our help. If what Barton said was true about this Deadpool guy, then he’s no match for simple agents.”

Everett frowned.

Tony exasperated. “You know what I mean,” he said. “You need all the help you can get.”

Everett’s tense shoulders stayed rigid for another minute before they deflated. He shook his head, muttering his disgruntle to himself. “Fine! But you follow my orders. Got it?”

“Whatever you say, Big E.”

Everett’s face tightened, but chose to not comment. “Be ready at twenty-two hundred hours, okay?” he said, moving around Tony to exit. “Is it going to be you or…” He looked to Captain America to receive his confirmation or declination.

Steve gave a nod of consent. “I’ll come along as well.”

“And so will I,” T’Challa volunteered, shocking everyone in the room again. Tony smiled in appreciation and Everett released a long stream of air, but conceded to the volunteerism. Only Steve was hesitant.

"Your Highness, you don't have to go,” Steve gently said. “You have already done so much for us—"

“I'm not doing it for you," T'Challa stated, sweeping onto his feet with an easy grace. "I am doing it for Peter. I owe him a life debt. And if this assassin is threatening him, then I shall stop him.”

* * *

Black Panther blended in the background of the night. Perched on an old fire escape, he waited for the signal as he kept an eye out for sudden movements. He stayed still, unnoticed, as he watched people amble down the sidewalk, drunk and obnoxious.

East Village of New York City was not impressive. The only splash of color around him came from the grime of lurid graffiti. Cracked, uneven sidewalks pathed around old buildings and embittered trees that grew tall, but without any strength. The street lamps did nothing against the night. Half were broken and all revealed a chipped, grayscale undercoat. It looked nothing of the beauty Wakanda offered and T’Challa remained stumped as ever as to why Shuri was enthralled with it.

Everett reported that Deadpool’s digital footprint kept popping up in this vicinity. T’Challa asked of Deadpool’s appearance, but Tony only told him to look for a “looney tune”. Whatever that meant.

“ _T’Challa?_ ”

It was Everett. He was stationed in his car, safe and away in case Deadpool went crazy before they could subdue him. Not that it would stop Everett. T’Challa knew Everett planned to jump into the fray the minute he heard commotion. He had to admire that brave man. For being mortal with no defense but an uncivilized weapon, Everett was a brave and foolish man all in one.

“ _T’Challa? Do you have eyes on him?_ ”

“Negative,” T’Challa whispered into his microphone back to Everett. “No movements here.”

“ _Stark?_ ”

“ _A bit busy at the moment_ ,” came Tony’s reply.

“ _Wait… why? Did you find him?_ ”

“ _No_ ,” Tony answered. “ _I'm simply busy ignoring you_.”

T’Challa exhaled, dropping his head in a slow shake. Tony Stark, for all the genius he was, lacked tact. The four of them were together on this, lurking outside an underground club with a repulsive stench. According to Everett’s report, Deadpool had been seen lingering in the area around this particular club. Don’t know why, but T’Challa had a feeling it wasn’t for night to go clubbing.

And then, T’Challa heard Steve’s voice through their intercom. “ _Tony? Did you hear that_?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” came Tony’s response.

Everett’s voice crackled. ” _What is it_?”

“ _Jesus, Big E. Calm down. We’ll check it out. Your Highness? Stay in position.”_

T’Challa affirmed and stayed hidden in the darkness of urban jungle around him. He listened closely, recognizing music, chatter and glass breaking. Then silence. Nothing. Not a sound. T’Challa crept carefully along the fire escape, focused on his sense of hearing and sight.

Then, an utter cry shattered the silence into pieces.

Everett’s voice blared in his ear. “ _What the hell was that?_ ”

T’Challa didn’t know, but he leapt from one fire escape to the next, heading to the back alleyway where he believed was the source of the sound. He crawled over the rooftop and peered down. Standing below were two men. One dressed in dark trousers, a dark shirt that showed off his intricate tattoos and a heavy leather jacket. The other was completely dressed from head to toe in red, with black and white eyes so round they nearly cover the entire face.

The Man in Red stared at the other guy, who slumped against the wall, stiff and frozen in agony and shock. The Man in Red whistled. “Ooh… a surprise twist that no one saw coming,” he intoned in a mocked gasp. “Except me, of course. I mean, it's obvious that I would live. This is my story. The protagonist always lives.”

“And what if it isn’t your story?”

T’Challa turned to the mouth of the alleyway and spotted Tony Stark blocking the exit. He had his arms crossed, the heart of his arc reactor glowing bright blue behind his triceps.

The Man in the Red Suit inhaled sharply. “Oh my God! You made it to my show!” he shouted with glee. “Although, I have to tell you, you missed the entire beginning, middle and basically the end except the  _very_   _end_. I’m simply doing an encore right now.”

“So hold the applause until the end,” The Man in Red said. He spun the gun between his fingers before aiming it right back to the man on the ground. “Now… where was I?”

"Actually, I'm not here for the show," Tony stopped the Man in Red from firing off his gun. "I'm here for another thing."

The Man in Red whipped his head around. His white eyes narrowed. "Oooh! You mean this dude? You're a bit late for that," he quipped. "He's dead. Like dead-dead. Can’t' be reversed with magic stones. There is no Avengers sequel for him."

T'Challa bafflingly stared, while Tony outright stated everyone's inner thoughts about the man's rant. "What?"

The Man in Red gestured to the limp guy slugged on the ground. "Him. He's dead."

Tony flickered a glance to the dead guy. "Eh—yeah. I figured. The blood makes it a dead-giveaway," he answered, "but that's not why I am here.”

Tony raised his hand and a beam of blue light ignited in his palm. Red and gold swallowed his body, starting from his chest and ending at his feet and fingers. Once his famous Iron Man mask closed on his face, the beam of light shot out and straight to the Man in Red.

The Man in Red dodged the repulsor blast, cartwheeling to the left. “Oooh….foreplay!” The Man in Red said and tossed his gun aside. He unsheathed his two katanas. “Let’s go get our fuck on!”

The two clashed, repulsor blasts firing in every direction the Man in Red danced to. His katanas spun easily in his hand, cutting around the blasts in attempts to break Iron Man’s suit. But Stark’s suit endured the katanas’ brute strength against the steel.

“Oooh… you’re hard,” the Man in Red cooed. He patted his balls. “Me too!”

T’Challa overheard Tony’s disgusted noise. “ _Hey—I know I said I’m not a team player_ ,” he said through their bluetooths, “ _but some help over here will be nice._ ”

Call to duty. T’Challa jumped on top of the railing, preparing to launch his own attack when Agent Ross sprinted around the corner, gun raised.

“Freeze, Deadpool! CIA!” Everett shouted, but the Man in Red didn’t comply with his demand.

So, Everett fired.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

T'Challa watched the mercenary slice the bullets away from him, deflecting each bullet in a technique T’Challa never witnessed. Not a single bullet Everett fired touched him. Littered by the Man in Red’s feet were fragments of bullets, cut into bitty pieces.

Everett stopped firing and stared at the impressive deflection. Tony Stark was right. This man was no ordinary human. Was he enhanced as well? Must be.

The Man in Red sheathed his two katanas. “If this is a party,” he drawled, “then I’m bringing out the big guns.”

He whipped out two guns, one for each hand, and fired. T’Challa forewent his position and dropped down. He lunged at Everett, shoving his friend and himself behind a dumpster as bullets ricocheted. Everett held his gun firm and fired from behind the dumpster, but his bullets seemed to miss Deadpool.

“Wow! And you call yourself a CIA agent,” the villain quipped. “My blind roommate can shoot better than you!”

Everett scowled at the insult, but said nothing as Deadpool fired off another round. “You should know something about me,” Deadpool said during a brief moment of silence. “I hate surprises!”

Bullets fired overhead. Chunks of brick bursted from the walls, showering down on him and Everett. "Stay here," T'Challa ordered and he leapt over their hideaway, scaling the side of the building. Bullets trailed after him, but never hit the mark. T'Challa moved quickly and he leapt from the wall to the fire escape.

Deadpool whistled low, impressed. "You're like a fucking panther!"

How observant, T'Challa remarked to himself as he jumped from the fire escape and gave a brutal kick to the mercenary. Deadpool rolled with the kick and swung his gun around, firing straight at T'Challa's chest. The bullet collided into his habit, but it didn't go through. The vibration was absorbed and he used the energy to power-punch Deadpool. The mercenary flew off his feet, tumbling into a small somersault before he jumped back into action. He tossed his guns aside, and pulled out his katana again. 

"Guess we have to do it old school style," Deadpool muttered. “Back to the 2000s. To think I believed the change in the timelines changed all that.”

His comments left T’Challa baffled, which might be a tactic of the mercenary as Deadpool charged at that moment. The katana spun at him in a mesmerizing impression. T'Challa brought out his claws and swiped at the sword, hearing the metal  _screech_  as he deflected the swords away from his neck. Deadpool chuckled. "And the claws are finally out," he squealed in delight. “I love pussycats!”

Deadpool spun up in the air, legs separated as if to wrap them around T'Challa's neck. T'Challa rolled off, dodging Deadpool's attempt to incapacitate him. 

Deadpool twirled his katana again and attacked. T'Challa saw something in the corner of his eye fly straight at Deadpool's leg. It struck the mercenary and shot up a lightning bolt that made his costume glow purple. Then a shield came flying from nowhere, striking Deadpool dead in the chest. Deadpool fell backwards and Iron Man flared down beside him. He blasted the katana out of Deadpool's hand before he trapped him with a pair of magnetic handcuffs, keeping him in a bind. 

"Now, stay down," Tony ordered as his helmet fell back to reveal a biting scowl. 

Captain America reappeared, a shield in his hand. He took a moment to study their captured opponent, determining how dangerous the individual was even subdued. Everett Ross also joined the group, gun aimed at Deadpool as a precaution. 

Tony looked across to Everett. "You hurt?"

"Well, I do have a kink in my neck," piped Deadpool. "And my chest is a bit sore."

"Not you," Tony growled as he flickered a glance to Deadpool before he looked back to Agent Ross for an answer.

Everett nodded, confirming that he was uninjured in the attack. "I'm fine. Not a scratch."

"Well, if I wanted you dead—"

"If I were you," Steve intercepted the man's sentence, "I would be quiet."

Deadpool paused. "Okay—are you mad that I’m a cooler superhero than you?” he asked, swinging his head to Stark and Rogers. "I admit, I don't really see myself as a superhero. More like... a kick-ass, lovable dofus who plays with knives and guns. But, if you want to label me as a hero—"

“You’re not a hero,” Tony rebuked.

“No? But I kick ass. I kill bad guys. Hell—isn't that the criteria for a hero?"

No one responded. Was he deranged?

Deadpool kept rambling. "Is this some sort of hazing?” he questioned. “Did I make the team? What about an Avenger name? Because I kind of like the one I have now. Oh—wait—what do you think of my action pose?”

Deadpool twisted his body into a ludicrous pose that T’Challa cringed upon sight. He couldn't see Deadpool's face, but he heard the twisted, crazed smile when Deadpool spoke. "You like?"

“Shut up," Stark snapped. "You have a lot to answer for.”

"Oh... this will be good. We've come to the big reveal scene," Deadpool rumbled. "Very well, entertain me!" He popped a squat in the middle the alleyway, head in his cuffed hands as he waited for the list of evidence against him.

It only aggravated Tony and Everett even more. Eventually, Everett read the deranged man his rights. "You are under arrest for terrorism and for the murder of eighty-one individuals. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will—"

"HOLD IT!" Deadpool popped his head up, hands out in front. "Wait. Rewind a bit. There. Right there! Now... what's this about terrorism and murdering eighty-one people?"

“Oh, don’t play cute with us. We aren’t buying it,” Tony rebutted. “We know what you are. Barton told us all about you.”

“Agent Barton, eh?” Deadpool dangerously purred. “That little Legolas still fucking about? How’s he doing? The last time I saw him, he swore to cut off my balls. But, that’s in the past. I send him fruit baskets every Christmas, Valentine’s Day and President Day. Although, I’m a bit disappointed I never got one in return. You think after that adventure we had together—”

“You know,” Steve said, switching his shield to the next hand, “you talk a lot.”

“Really? Because my therapist says I need to talk more. Specifically about my feelings.”

“We don’t give a damn about your therapy!” Tony Stark bit, his nostrils flaring. He jabbed a gloved finger at Deadpool’s face. “You are nothing more than a killer.”

“I prefer mercenary.”

"Don't get wise with me," Tony sneered. "Dr. Stromm blamed you for the deaths of everyone."

Deadpool said nothing for a long minute. "Wait... was that it? Sorry, I'm waiting for more background information here," he said. "I thought there was going to be more." He turned to T'Challa. "Did you think he had more to say? I'm not crazy right? You see! You thought so too!"

T'Challa flipped an eyebrow up as he shared a glimpse with Steve.

Everett huffed, finger still on the trigger. "You can't remember bringing down a plane full of innocent people?"

"Uh... that would be an obvious negative," Deadpool commented. "But, mostly because I didn't do it."

"That's a lie!” yelled Tony.

Deadpool hummed, pulling out his wrists a bit. "As much as I love to receive recognition and praise for my artistic skills," he said, dropping his head to one shoulder. "You aren't doing that at all. Try again."

"Excuse me?" Tony glared.

"What? I appreciate compliments, but only if it's my work," Deadpool said, tugging on his handcuffs. "I'm not about taking another's credit. There's such a thing called 'honor'. I live by it."

Tony rolled his eyes. Everett's brow flipped up in a doubtful arch. Steve slowly sighed exasperatedly. And T'Challa stared at Deadpool, trying to crack the cipher behind the man's words. "Are you saying... you did not blow up a plane?"

"Finally! Someone who speaks my language!" Deadpool cried out. "Yes! I might be a professional asshole, but I'm not a dick. I don't go around killing anyone for kicks and giggles."

"For money only, right?" Steve countered, still disgusted.

Deadpool nodded. "Yeah, well, of course money! What’s the point in killing if you don’t get paid? Then again, I don’t always take the hits. I do have a code of honor," he claimed. "One—I don't kill people who aren't guilty. Second—the whole plane crashing... that's too cliché man. Way too... I don't know. It's sloppy."

"Murdering a hundred people and you think that's... wow," Everett muttered, disbelief. "You're not exactly sane, are you?"

"Would you be?" Deadpool threw back, tugging on the handcuffs again. "Hell—in my world, I’m very sane.”

Another round of quizzical glances passed between them. Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay—I’m done with this meaningless chit-chat,” he announced, stepping up to Deadpool. “I wanna know who this wise-cracking asshole is.”

Deadpool pulled away from Tony’s outstretched hand. “Whoa… before you carry out the big unmasking moment,” he warned, “I want you to know that it’s not pretty. It looks like Wolverine when he’s playing Hugh Jackman, but crossed with a combined after-shots of the Proactive acne commercials.”

Again, no one said anything. All remained in stumped silence. Deadpool, however, nodded along. “I know. It wouldn’t be bad if it was… say… Ryan Reynolds’ face, but nope. Wasn’t blessed with God’s perfect idiot’s face. Guess I won’t win this year’s Sexist Man Alive.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Big E? Please just throw this guy in the deepest pit on Earth.”

Everett, for once, did not mind to follow Tony’s commands. “Gladly,” he uttered, going over to hoist the crazed man up.

But Deadpool surprised them all. He leapt onto his own two feet. “I object! No body, no crime!”

“There’s a body over there,” T’Challa pointed to the dead man still slumped against the building.

Deadpool looked back to him. “Him? Oh. Didn’t know we were counting him in the charges,” he admitted. “In my defense, that guy was a dick.”

“That’s not a defense,” Steve called out.

“Yeah it is. The world doesn’t need any more dicks.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tony interrupted the madman’s rant. “You are still going to rot for the rest of your life.”

“For a crime I didn’t commit?” Deadpool raised in doubt. “Look—I know you guys are the Avengers and everything. The big, blockbuster heroes, where everyone’s name has to be either Chris, Tom or Peter, but I’m going to let you in on a dirty secret of mine… I didn’t fucking crash a plane!”

"Sorry if I don't believe in a deranged lunatic," Tony said. "Especially when all the evidence points to you."

“What evidence?” Deadpool complained. “You basically said one man named me. And, honestly, he was probably just fucking with you.”

“A dying man, who was poisoned, would fuck with me on something like that?” Tony challenged.

Deadpool’s head furiously nodded. “Of course! That’s perfect! Like the greatest mic drop ever! That’s a good line. I think I may borrow it,” he commented. “All I know is that I didn’t destroy a plane. Not my style. That’s like… lazy writing. What? Could they not come up with another way to kill someone off? A plane crash? I guess it has a bit more flair than a simple car crash.”

“Is everything a joke to you?” T’Challa asked, repulsed by the man’s lack of decorum on the subject of terrorism and death.

“Well, I prefer it over to screaming,” Deadpool said. “Which is what I always hear in my mind.”

“The screams of the people you killed?” Tony raised a brow. “How odd.”

“I didn’t kill those people!” Deadpool slammed. “I was set up! Someone is tarnishing my good name and reputation!”

“And you had a good reputation to begin with?” questioned Everett. “I find that far more unbelievable than you claiming you didn’t crash the plane.”

“Well, as cute and adorable you’re little hedgehog face is,” Deadpool chimed to the agent, “I will beat sense into it. I did not kill those people. Again—why a plane crash? Such a waste. Could have made it more intriguing.”

Everett’s face glowed a deep maroon color. “More intriguing? Are you… are you fucking serious?” he said, stunned. “These people died! A boy lost his parents because of that crash and you—”

T’Challa pulled Everett back from the mercenary. His old friend was letting the anger getting the better of him. “Easy, Agent Ross,” he advised. “Breathe.”

Everett took a deep breath, but the pinched ferocity of his gaze didn’t soften.

Deadpool tilted his head, assessing what Everett told him. “A boy... a boy eh?” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve that Spidey boy, right? Oh my god! It does! You’re talking about little, bitty Petey Parker!”

And right there everyone’s muscles tightened, ready for action. Tony’s suit whirled. Steve raised his shield. Everett’s grip on his gun tightened. T’Challa’s claws stabbed out of his habit.

But all their subtle actions only got the mercenary into a frenzy. “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! It is. So… the itsy, bitsy spider lost his parents through his plane crash, eh? And this crazed doctor blames me,” he listed off on his fingers. Then, he clapped excitedly with the little room he had available. “I’ll take it!”

Again, they all shared confounded glances with one another. “What is the insane man muttering on about?” Everett said. “We didn’t offer you anything.”

“Sure you did!” Deadpool claimed. “You want me to find the true culprit of the person who killed little, baby Spidey’s parents. I accept! For payment, I take cash. No checks. No direct deposits. Cash only.”

“We’re not hiring you!” Tony shouted. “We’re arresting you!”

T’Challa cautiously watched the mercenary pace a bit in front of him. Deadpool bluntly ignored him. “Now you said a Dr. Stromm told you I killed them. That’s a start,” he said. “Anything else? No? Well, I have had less to work off. But, give me a week, and I’ll have something for you guys.”

A vein in Tony’s forehead bulge. “Do you not hear us?” he yelled over the man’s ramblings. “We’re arresting you for those murder!”

“Can’t,” Deadpool sung. “The game’s a foot, Sherlock!”

Steve sighed in weariness of the mercenary’s antics. “Ignore him,” he advised everyone. “He’s a bit mad. Let’s just take him to the compound. We’ll question him once he… calms down?”

They agreed and Everett moved around T’Challa to drag Deadpool back to their van. But, Deadpool danced out of Everett’s hand, skipping from one part of the alley to the next. “Sorry, little man,” he quipped. “Can’t club with you all night. Got a mystery to solve!”

“You’re handcuffed,” T’Challa pointed to the man as Everett lunged again at Deadpool. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Deadpool looked at his locked hands. “Oh? That’s an easy fix!”

Deadpool stopped moving. He sucked in a deep breath and tugged his wrists against the handcuffs. T’Challa rolled his eyes at the futile attempt to slip his hands out of the cuffs. It was impossible to break. Designed to keep even an enhanced human from breaking out. No way a simple mercenary (albeit, crazy!) could break from them.

But, Deadpool kept trying. His skin stretched more and more. T’Challa thought he heard something tearing. Stich by stich, something ripped apart and his guts cringed as the sound grew louder. Feet shuffled, shadows mingling together as Tony and Steve joined T’Challa and Everett.

Steve’s voice spoke to T’Challa’s left. “Is he… he isn’t…”

And then Deadpool gave one last strong tug. Hands flew up in the air in victory. Blood squirted in arching rivers from the open wounds of Deadpool’s stumped arms. The handcuffs dropped to the ground, drenched in blood. T’Challa stared, dumbfounded at the ripped hands and then back to Deadpool.

The mercenary was free and didn’t even seem to care that he just ripped his hands off his arms. “See? Easy!” he boldly stated. “Now… I gotta go! I have the scent and can’t let it escape now!”

Deadpool howled and before anyone could overcome what they witnessed, he leapt over them, jumping up from the fire escape to the next until he disappeared up on the rooftops. But, his voice carried back down to them.

“Thanks for letting me join the team!” Deadpool’s voice cried in the night. “Remember—cash only!”

No one did anything. They remained motionless. Either staring where they last saw Deadpool or his decapitated hands. The stunned silence stretched onward, blood flowing between the cracks of sidewalk, feeding the soil underneath them.

T’Challa had seen a lot of things, but never had he witnessed a man yank a limb off himself. He inhaled and exhaled in stuttered breaths. “Did he just… rip his hands off?” he asked, double-checking that he himself didn’t catch Deadpool’s insanity.

Tony stared at the dismembered hands in quiet shock, but nodded to T’Challa inquiry. “Yep.”

“Should we go after him?” Steve asked, eyes up to the roofs.

Tony shrugged. “To be honest, I rather not go near him at the moment,” he confessed and turned to Agent Ross. “I’ll let you handle this, Big E.”

Agent Ross narrowed his glare at Tony. “Gee… thanks,” he grumbled, scratching the back of his head. “What the fuck is going on around here?”

“I don’t know,” T’Challa answered. “Do you think he’s telling the truth? About not killing Peter’s parents?”

A question that hung over them in troubling doubt. If they took Deadpool’s word that he didn’t kill Peter’s parents, then who was this doctor referring to when he confessed on his deathbed?

Tony didn’t care at the moment. He flipped his mask back over his face. “I’m going to head back to the compound,” he announced. “Need to up the security. I have a bad feeling that Deadpool may go after Peter.”

“I’ll report back to headquarters,” Everett said, pulling out his phone. “Keep Deadpool as a top priority.”

“Good,” Tony said. “Cap? Go back with Everett. Make sure he gets back safely. Your Highness? You’re coming with me.”

T’Challa didn’t argue. If Deadpool went for Peter, then he went for Shuri too as she was with him. He hitched a ride with Tony and flew over the city, back to the compound. Back to checking in on Peter and Shuri while trying to analyze and comprehend everything that occurred tonight.

T’Challa must agree with Everett’s assessment. What is going around and why was it connected with young, Peter Parker?


	11. Shuri

“And this is my lab,” Peter slid a card through a reader and the door unlocked.

Shuri stepped across the threshold and surveyed the room. In contrast to her own laboratory, Peter’s lab was smaller and not decked out in the finest equipment. Although, their lack of vibranium may be the reason for the poor substitutes of what they deemed the latest in technology.

But it was a nice lab and Peter looked pleased with it all, so Shuri smiled and offered a compliment. “Cool.”

Peter walked beside her as she checked out the chemistry lab set-up. “I know it’s not as cool as yours,” he commented. “But, it’s mine. Tony gave me most of his old equipment to use.”

Shuri moved onto the next station. “And what do you do here? What are you making?”

Peter shrugged. “Nothing really,” he said. “Tweaking my web-shooters or building up my own robot.”

“You have a robot?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, well, not really. It’s mostly just an arm of a robot,” he rephrased. “But it recognizes voices and commands. Certain commands.”

Shuri scanned the room in search for the robot. “Where is it?”

“Oh—in my room,” Peter said. “Not in here. I usually work on it in Tony’s lab. Not in mine.”

“Is that how you spend most of your days here?” Shuri questioned. “Tinkering on robots and web-shooters?”

Peter shuffled his feet to move to another portion of his lab. “No, I… I do other things. Like, um… reading. And I’m trying to help my aunt learn how to be a better cook. Captain America is also teaching me a bit about motorcycles. And, um… let’s see… I do other things too.”

Shuri erupted in laughter. “Calm down, skinny, white boy,” she quipped. “I was only asking. So, no more heroics then?”

“Can’t,” Peter replied. “Not until all this Accords business is put behind. So… Spider-man is on hold for now. Aunt May and Tony try to keep me busy with things though. Started me up on some kind of homeschool program. I haven’t been able to tell them that it’s easy though. I finish it all in an hour.

“I know. It’s not really a way to spend one’s day, but everyone else is busy with their own things,” Peter continued on. “I do what I can to keep myself busy.”

Shuri understood that feeling. As a princess, it was hard to make friends and to simply move about on her own without permission or without guards trailing five feet behind her. She had grown up accustomed to the situation, but every now and then, she dreamed of a less monitored lifestyle.

That got her remembering…

“Do you have your suit?” Shuri inquired, interested in checking out the famous Spider-man costume Peter adored. “I want to see it.”

Peter checked the door. “Okay… KAREN? Let me know if anyone is coming.”

Shuri stared at him puzzlingly. She was about to ask who Karen was when an embodiment voice replied overhead.

“ _Monitoring the hallway._ ”

Shuri gaped up at the ceiling. “Who was that?”

Peter strode across the lab to his case of cabinets. “Oh, right. Um, Shuri, that’s my AI, KAREN,” he said. “KAREN? Say hi to Shuri.”

“ _Hello, Shuri of Wakanda. We have been expecting your arrival._ ”

Shuri lit up in pure delight. “You have an AI?”

Peter mirrored Shuri’s excitement. “Tony gave her to me when I started out as Spider-man,” he said. “She’s been very helpful on my missions. She’s great.”

“Why KAREN?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you call her Karen?” Shuri clarified.

“Oh. I don’t know. It was the first name that popped in my head and she liked it,” Peter answered. “She’s programmed to my lab, bedroom, phone and…” Peter lifted up one of the floorboards in the cabinet and pulled out a red and blue bodysuit, “my suit.”

He held up the suit, letting the costume roll so that Shuri saw the whole design. Decked in red and blue colors with a spider logo in the center, Shuri admired the suit quality. While it was not as tech as her own designs, she was admirably impressed with the heads-up display embedded in the eye lenses, the secret, reconnaissance drone and the gliding abilities.

However, it could be improved. Already, ideas brewed within her mind. “What is the material?”

“It’s some sort of highly, endurant fabric,” Peter responded. “It doesn’t tear and the fabric doesn’t stretch either. It’s waterproof too.”

“Interesting,” Shuri felt the fabric between her fingers. Smooth and gentle. Not an edge of roughness. “Good quality.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “I’ve been meaning to see if I can update it a bit. Wanted to ask Tony, but I’m afraid to show him that I have it.”

Shuri looked up from the suit. “Why? It’s yours.”

“Yeah, you see, he thinks I lost it the day the army attacked me,” Peter explained. “I thought I did too until I met Ned again. Turned out he smuggled it out of the school that day. But, if Tony knows that I have it, he might think I might go running off into the night and play Spider-man, which I’m not supposed to do until the Accords are finalized. And, I don’t think he really wants me doing it on my own anymore either. Not since I’ve been outed.

Peter sighed. “I don’t want him to take it though. Not yet anyway,” he answered, rolling the suit back up. “I still want it in my possession, you know?”

“Yeah, I do,” Shuri said as she watched him stow it back into its hideaway. “So… what else does this joint have to offer then?”

Peter gave her a quick tour of the compound. It wasn’t as big as her palace back home, but it was well furbished, a great example of modern America design. Shuri was intrigued with every technological aspect of the building, wanting to learn more about it. Peter humored her geek-outs and occasionally joined in with her as he demonstrated how to utilize the elevator that didn’t have any buttons.

They spent nearly the whole day together, even playing a game Peter called ‘basketball’ that she somewhat enjoyed. They weren’t bothered until her brother came looking for her.

“Shuri,” T’Challa said, finding them walking in a hallway in the direction of the theater room. “I’m sorry I have not been attentive to you today, but I assumed you were busy catching up with Mr. Parker.” T’Challa gave a small nod in Peter’s direction. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to have dinner with you this evening. Something has come up and I am needed in attendance.”

Shuri and Peter both perked up. “What?” Shuri said.

“Is everything okay?” Peter followed up.

T’Challa nodded. “Yes, just a small hindrance that needs some… finalizing,” he assured them both. “I hope you aren’t too devastated, little sister, but I will see you in the morning.”

Shuri curled in her lips. The morning? How long was this meeting going to take? “Why so late? How many hours will it take?”

“It’s in the city.”

Shuri’s face lit up. “The city?” she muttered, stars in her eyes. “I want to go. Can’t I go? I want to see Times Square at night!”

T’Challa shook his head. “No, absolutely not. I’m not going for a tourist trip. There won’t be time to see a square.”

“It’s not a square!” Shuri frowned. “Please? Take me there and I will give myself a tour.”

“No,” T’Challa repeated. “Stay here. Hang-out with Peter.”

Shuri flickered a glance to Peter as an idea struck. “Or we can hang-out together in the city,” she said. “He could be my local guide.”

T’Challa’s nostrils flared at her persistence. “The answer is no. You can tour the city another time. Not tonight.”

“But—”

“What about tomorrow?” Peter offered, which drew Shuri and T’Challa to turn to him. “I mean, you guys have the Accords meeting all day tomorrow. Shuri and I can go into the city then. In the morning… Your Highness.”

Shuri faced her big brother, watching T’Challa stumble over finding a reason to deny the option. “Yeah, big brother?” she smugly inquired, crossing her arms. “What about tomorrow? You don’t need me tomorrow at all. I can go with Peter then.”

T’Challa caressed the side of his face in thought, but came to one conclusion. “You and Mr. Parker can go to the city tomorrow. But I want one of the Dora Milaje to be with you,” he said her. “I don’t trust the streets of New York City.”

With that compromise, Shuri squealed and wished for the sun to set quicker and rise earlier. She didn’t even hear whatever her brother jabbered on about. She kept nodding her head along, picturing her day under the lights of New York, the Big Apple.

Her brother departed and Peter suggested they go to the theater to kill some time before dinner. “What movie do you wanna watch?” Peter asked as he led the way to the theater room. “Tony has all sorts of films, plus Netflix, Hulu and Amazon Prime. Even HBO Go.”

Shuri didn’t know what any of that meant. “How about… actually, why don’t you surprise me? What do you want to watch?”

Peters face screwed into one of deep contemplation. “Do you like old films?” he questioned. “It’s really good. It’s called _Point Break_.”

* * *

Shuri woke the next morning, earlier than her alarm. She jumped out of her bed, quickly showering and changing clothes to get the day started. She ate little, telling her Ayo, her bodyguard, that she planned to eat something upon arriving in the city. “There’s this poplar dining ritual they have. It’s called a brunch,” Shuri explained to Ayo. “I don’t want to ruin my appetite.”

T’Challa joined her for breakfast, trying to back out of their compromise. Heckles rose and Shuri argued with her over-protective brother, yelling at him until he finally conceded to her. However, he warned her to be vigilant. Observe everyone and everything around her and if danger should appear, to get out fast.

His jitters only heightened her nerves, so she told him to calm down. “Stop trying to scare me,” she to T’Challa, getting up from the table. “You’re acting as if a colonizer is going to kidnap me.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be,” she remarked. “I’ll be fine. I can protect myself. But if it makes you feel better, Ayo will be with me and so will Peter. Speaking of which…”

She was supposed to meet him at his apartment. She said good-bye to her brother, rushing to the door as he called out. “I don’t want any diplomatic issues! Do not terrorize them!”

Shuri gave him the middle finger before running off to find Peter.

She arrived outside a door on the far east side. It was the correct number that Peter told her, so she gave two, strong knocks on the door. On the other side, she heard muffled voices and footsteps drawing closer to her. Shuri backed up, almost ramming into Ayo as she did.

The door opened and a gorgeous, red-haired woman opened the door. She wore thick, round glasses that covered her dark orbs that widened upon seeing Shuri and Ayo. And then, she smiled. “You must be Princess Shuri,” she said, stepping aside. “Come on in.”

Shuri entered and Ayo followed, examining their new surroundings for any threats and quick escapes. The red-haired woman closed the door. “Sorry… I’m May,” she greeted. “Peter’s aunt.”

When Peter talked about May Parker, Shuri expected a much older woman. Someone as old as Zuri. Not… this beautiful woman! Peter’s constant fears for her health had Shuri believing May was in her eighties. Not her thirties… forties at the latest!

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Parker,” Shuri answered what she believed was the American custom. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” May answered. “Very good now that Peter’s back home. Which, I actually need to thank you. Peter told me how you befriended him in Wakanda.”

“Well, we enjoyed the same interests.”

“Peter said the same thing,” May brushed a strand of her long hair over her ear. “Thank you though. Peter’s a bit shy and being away from home… Anyway, I know it was hard on him and you were nice to him. So… thank you.”

Before Shuri could comment, a door opened and Peter ambled down the hallway, pulling a coat over him. He stopped when he saw Shuri in his living room. “Hey! I didn’t know you were here.”

“Sorry,” May chimed in. “That’s my fault. I started talking.”

May went to her purse and pulled out some cash and chapstick. “Here, take this,” she said to Peter. “Be home by ten. Got it, mister?”

Peter pocketed the money and chapstick. “Got it,” he said. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Smart boy,” May said, planting a kiss on his head and pushing him to the door. “Go and have fun! Remember to be nice and considerate. And send my love to Ned.”

Peter said he will, leading Shuri out of the apartment. Shuri passed on her goodbye as well. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine. And call Peter out if he gives you any trouble,” May said as she waved them off.

“Promise!” Shuri responded back as she flicked Peter behind his ear before laughing. “You’re late.”

“Sorry… overslept. Apparently I told KAREN another five minutes at least four times,” answered Peter. “But, we’re going now.”

“Yes, thank Bast we are,” Shuri said. “I want to get out of here before my big brother changes his mind all over again.”

* * *

An hour later, Shuri sat in the car. Her face was glued to the window, peering out as the car drove deeper into the city of New York. She gazed at the shadowy skyscrapers, the flashing billboards and the creative languages New Yorkers threw out at each other. It was all magnificent!

“Where is Times Square?” she asked. “Is it near here?”

Peter, who had been quiet most the way, shook his head. “No, that’s on the other side of Manhattan. We’re not going there.”

Shuri spun, alarmed. “We’re not going there? Why not?” she asked. “Are we at least going to Governor’s Island?”

Peter chuckled. “No, that’s… yeah. No one goes there unless it’s summer,” he explained. “We’re heading to my old neighborhood. In Queens.”

“What’s in Queens?” Shuri pondered. “Is that where Tribeca is?”

“What? No,” Peter shook his head. “No… it’s just home. My home. I want you to meet my friends.”

Shuri turned away from the window to Peter. “So… we’re not going to see the Statue of Liberty? Or Times Square or Tribeca?”

“No, we are,” Peter assured her. “We’re just going to see my friends first. I want you to meet them.”

“You mean Ned, and this… MJ girl?”

“And Harry,” Peter added. “You’ll like them. They’re a nice bunch; although MJ can be a bit serious when she wants to be. I think she scared Tony once. Don’t really know how.”

Shuri snorted. “Doesn’t seem too hard to scare that man.”

They drove away from the finer statures of New York, spinning the wheels down a long stretch of road that went from towering skyscrapers to cramped duplex homes, scattered with random, dungy bodegas.  The car turned off the highway and entered into a quiet, humble neighborhood with even more duplex homes.

The car purred up outside one particular home. Peter unbuckled. “We’re here!” he said, excited as he opened his car door. He ran around the car and opened the door for her, much to Shuri’s exasperation. She could open the car door herself.

But, she thanked Peter anyway. “This is where you live?”

“Eh… no,” Peter said, pointing up and over the house in front of them. “I lived a few blocks that way. This is Ned’s home. Come on! They’re inside.”

Shuri ordered Ayo to stay with the car as she didn’t need a guard to visit Peter’s friends. Peter grabbed her hand and led her up to the front door. His knuckles raptured against the wood and they waited for a few seconds before the door flew open. A plumped, Asian boy stood in the doorway, black hair parted in the middle as he wore a navy shirt with an unbutton, Hawaiian shirt. His beady eyes lit up and a smile overcame his face.

“Peter!” he shouted. “Hey! Come on in. Sorry about the mess. My parents have been busy seeing colleges with my older brother.”

The host wobbled out of the way, leaving the door wide open for them to enter. Peter let Shuri enter first and he followed. They both shrugged off their jackets and handed them to Ned.

“Ned, this is Shuri,” Peter introduced her to his best friend. “She’s visiting from Wakanda. Shuri, this is my best friend Ned.”

Ned, the best friend of Peter Parker, stuttered in his attempt to properly greet her. He fumbled, bowed and kept uttering words Shuri barely heard until he came full standing. “Your Highness,” he said, cheeks rosy, “It’s a pleasure to, um, I mean, it’s an honor…”

Peter pat his friend’s arm. “Dude, relax,” he said. “And stop bowing. They don’t do that there.”

“Oh,” Ned flushed and stopped his third attempt to bow to her. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’m not used to being in front of, um, royals.”

Shuri couldn’t contain herself. She dropped her head back and laughed. “I like you.”

And that made Ned beam with pride. He stood a little taller. “Thank you,” he said before gesturing them to follow. “Here… everyone is in the back.”

Shuri followed Peter, who trailed after Ned through the small adobe. She heard chattering emitting from the back of the house. They followed a hallway, straight to the end where they came to an opening of a seated area with tables, a television set and a few bookcases stuffed with books and trinkets.

But, that’s not what drew Shuri’s attention. Sitting on separate furnishings was a tall, thin-limbed black girl. She had frizzy curls, tied in a ponytail and a gaze that showed her disinterest in whatever the other kid was saying. The other teenager in the room sat with legs crossed, relaxed. An air of chill and cool. Sleek blonde hair, blue eyes that held a hint of mischievous to cover up something he hid from others. He wore a charming smirk. A man with time and money to do whatever he pleased, but Shuri wasn’t put off by him. Again, something lurked behind those eyes that made Shuri feel sorry for the kid.

Ned shouted for them. “Hey guys! They’re here.”

They both stopped talking and flicked their gazes to her, studying her outer appearance with some judgment, but not enough for Shuri to find it rude.

“Um, hi,” Peter said, swallowing a bit as he looked at the girl first. “This is Shuri. She’s a friend who’s visiting America for the first time.”

“Second time,” Shuri corrected him. “I’ve been to California.”

“Right,” Peter said, but he wouldn’t have known that. After all, he was long gone by that time. “This is her first time to New York. Shuri, this is MJ.” He pointed to the girl, who rose up from the couch and shook Shuri’s hand.

“Michelle, actually,” MJ, or Michelle corrected.

Peter then directed to the next kid. “And this is Harry.”

The cool kid got up from his seat and sauntered over to Shuri. He put on another charming smile of his and shook her hand. “Welcome,” he said, backing away to stand next to Michelle. “Where are you from?”

“Wakanda,” Shuri answered.

“Africa, eh?” Harry noted. “Yeah… I heard of your country. It’s opening its borders for the first time, right?”

Shuri nodded. A decision her brother came to after the whole incident with Killmonger. “Yes, we want to reach out to the rest of the world,” she said. “Help wherever we can.”

“Help as in how?” Michelle questioned, arms loosely crossed. “Not being rude, just interested in how. I read your king purchased a demolished lot out in Los Angeles. What do you plan on using the lot for?”

“My brother plans to build an outreach program to introduce innovative technology to less privileged children in urban areas,” Shuri answered. “I’m to oversee its development.”

Michelle raised her brows and slowly nodded. “Oh, what type of technology?”

“Vibranium technology.”

“It’s actually fascinating,” Peter piped into the conversation. “The element is nothing like we’ve seen before. It’s the most durable metal in existence with magnetic properties that can help create an effective transportation system without the need for—”

The corners of Michelle’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Peter—I know what vibranium is.”

Peter’s cheeks tinted pink. “Right. Yeah, sorry.”

Michelle shook her head and returned her gaze to Shuri. “That’s cool. Could use more people in the science field. Women, specifically. Men are too idiotic.”

Shuri cracked a smile. She liked this Michelle girl. “They don’t have vision. Too narrow-minded like my older brother,” she said. “He struggles to see the point of improving things that already work. I recently updated his Kimoyo beads to correlate with his mind, but he didn’t understand the necessity of it since his beads worked perfectly. I swear, most of the resistance I get for my developments come from men who are fine with how things are now. It’s annoying.”

That got an appreciative grin from Michelle. “I like you,” she declared. “You’re cool.”

The compliment flattered Shuri. Not that she didn’t think she was a cool person, but to win approval of Peter’s friends was a good start of the day. Especially with the only other female in the room. She snuck a glimpse at Peter, sharing a look of pride of her acceptance into the group.

Again, not that she didn’t think she wouldn’t be welcomed. Peter was a good kid and Shuri imagined he wouldn’t hang-out with snotty, arrogant racists that their country seemed to be producing in mass amounts.

Peter cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortable over the slight against their gender. “Anyway… Shuri has never been to New York and I was going to take her on a tour of the city,” he said, looking around at everyone. “Anyone interested in coming?”

Michelle frowned. “You mean attending all those lame tourist traps where you’ll get pickpocketed, sore feet and dealing with the Manhattan jostling of crowds?” she poised her sarcasm in a question to Peter.

When Peter struggled to determine if she meant it or not, Michelle answered her own question. “Sure. Why not? I’ve got nothing to do and I’ll find it entertaining.”

What she meant by entertaining, Shuri wasn’t quite sure. But once Michelle agreed, Harry did too. And, Ned… he was always on board. Already, he ran to fetch his wallet from upstairs.

“Are we taking a cab or the subway?” Harry asked as he and Michelle put on their shoes and coats. “My vote is cab.”

“Um, we actually have a car,” Peter answered, helping Shuri with her jacket. She was not used to wearing so many layers. “It’s outside. Enough room for all of us.”

Harry tilted his head to look out the nearby window. His eyes squinted. “Oh… you came in that?” he sounded disappointed. “I thought you might have come in one of Stark’s prized vehicles.”

“Oh—no. No, Tony won’t let me even breathe on them,” Peter said, pulling his coat as Ned thundered down the stairs. “Yeah, pretty basic, but we didn’t want to draw attention. Once we get to Manhattan, we can take the subway.”

“This subway,” Shuri leaned in to Peter to speak softly next to his ear. “Is it like the one back home?”

Peter shook his head. “Not even close,” he answered. “You’ll… just wait. It’ll be a surprise.”

Shuri didn’t like the sound of Peter’s tone. She flickered her eyes to Michelle, who made a face that mimicked one of disgust. That was unfortunate. She looked forward to examining the technological aspects of the city life. Perhaps, she’ll be inspired elsewhere.

Once they were all bundled up and ready, they headed to the car. Ayo waited for her. She crossed her arms in salute upon Shuri’s reappearance, but it seemed no one caught on the gesture. Ayo opened the door for her and Shuri slid into the vehicle.

Everyone sat comfortably in the car. Ned and Harry sat up in the middle row, while Michelle, Peter and her sat in the far back. The driver and Ayo sat in the very front. The driver glanced in the mirror to Peter.

“Where to, sir?”

“Manhattan,” Peter answered. “Fifty-ninth and Fifth.”

* * *

The road-trip to Manhattan was short, but enjoyable. They all talked and joked, Shuri having a great witty repertoire with Michelle at the expense of Peter’s embarrassment. Although, Shuri didn’t quite understand why Peter kept getting flustered over it. Harry threw in his two-cents, often winking at Michelle before she would throw the middle finger at him. Ned and Peter talked about a show called _Game of Thrones_.

But the trip ended and they arrived in the belly of Manhattan. The core of the Big Apple.

As promised, they participated in all the touristy activities that Shuri knew an original New Yorker would avoid. But, Peter and his gaggle of friends joined her. They climbed up to the top of the Empire State Building, hung-out with the library's lions, rode a carriage around Central Park, and geeked over the lesser technology at the Apple store. Shuri wasn’t too impressed with the variety of tech and gadgets, but she liked the Beats, purchasing a pair for herself.

She took a lot of pictures. Some selfies, others of the view and many with her and Peter. She had a couple of group shots with Peter’s friends and had a one-on-one photo op with Michelle, who didn’t enjoy having her picture taken. Shuri awed and cooed over all the sights they visited, talking excessively about things she recognized from films, magazines and books. Peter informed her of a few background tidbits whenever he could and even purchased her an ‘I ♥ NY’ shirt. Shuri was excited to show it off tomorrow.

They had finally came to the bottom of the island. They finished visiting the Charging Bull and Fearless Girl, and now entered the line for the ferry rides to Liberty Island. Shuri wore her Lady Liberty crown that she purchased from a street vendor. She also bought Michelle one, who stuck it right on top of her head as well.

As they waited in line, Shuri asked the group of their families’ history. Peter, Ned and Harry entertained her with their ancestors’ stories of the journey to America. Peter knew little of his family’s past, claiming he didn’t know when they came to America, but understood to have some German, English and Scandinavian background. When Shuri asked for Michelle’s story, she responded, “My ancestors got here by slave ships.”

The certainly ended that particular conversation. Shuri caught Peter giving Michelle a look, to which she responded flippantly with a crude gesture.

A man from front of the line beckoned and people started shuffling on board to head to the Statue of Liberty.

Shuri went straight to the top deck and to the stern. She looked over the vast harbor and land before her, taking in the sight. More people joined her at the top deck. She heard feet pattering toward her and recognized Peter's voice as he talked with Harry about the dynamics of hovercrafts. 

But then, Peter’s voice ceased for a brief moment before it grew alarmed. "Shuri? What are you doing?"

Without thinking, Shuri climbed up on the stern’s ledge. Feet planted to brace herself against the strong winds, she stretched her arms out and yelled, "I'm king of the world!"

Her voice carried over the waters, across to the dotted islands to the main land. A hand tugged at her shirt, urging her to come down. Shuri glanced down to see Peter, who cringed in apprehensiveness. 

"Shuri! Get down," he advised. "You're going to get in trouble."

Shuri didn't care. The worst they could do was throw her off. But she complied with Peter's demands if only to remove those dreadful wrinkles from his forehead. "Relax, I'm coming down."

Peter took her hand, helping her off the stern. As she put her feet back on the deck, a hum brewed around them. A melody lifted up from the unknown, carried around them by the ocean’s breeze. Shuri paused. She’s heard the melody before. In an American film. In fact, she heard it from one particular film.

A woman about a few feet away from them began to sing.

" _Near and far, wherever you are,"_  the woman sang, but the scarf wrapped around her neck and face muffled her voice. Yet, Shuri could still hear her. " _I believe that the heart does go on..._ "

Shuri clung onto Peter’s hand. “She’s singing it!” she said, gawking in amazement at the singer. “She’s singing _Titanic_!”

Others around the woman picked up the song. Some tapped their feet to create the melody and others joined in the singing, still being led by the woman who started it.

" _Once more, you open the door, and you're here in my heart and my heart will go on and on..._ "

Shuri was astounded as the improv performance grew to include more and more people on the top deck. Not wanting to miss the experience, Shuri joined in the fun, remembering the famous lyrics. She sang alongside Peter and his friends, clapping to the rhythm.

When the song finished, there was a round of an applause and cheers from not only the deck, but also the dock where those waiting to get on a ferry stood. They all heard and clapped for the performance.

The ferry honked, signaling that its departure. Everyone broke away, heading off to wherever they wished to stand or sit during the journey. Shuri turned to Peter, beaming. “I cannot believe that happened!” she said, ecstatic. “I mean, who expected that?”

Peter shrugged. “You did quote _Titanic…_ on a boat,” he said. Then he uncomfortably shifted his feet. “Hey, um, about earlier. Don’t mind MJ. She can be a bit… serious. She’s kind of blunt. Particularly on that aspect of American history.”

“I’m not offended by what she said,” Shuri said, quelling Peter’s anxiety. “It happened. My people were kidnapped and sold as slaves. It is a part of history. You cannot erase that.”

Peter somberly nodded. “I know a lot of people wish they could.”

“But they shouldn’t,” Shuri argued. “My country understands, now more and ever, that we cannot ignore past mistakes and cruelties. It’s why we are creating the outreach programs.”

“You’re going to have to tell me more about those,” Peter said. “I won’t mind helping out. I mean, that is if I can. I know I’m not Wakandan.”

“Not by birth,” Shuri said and she looked back to the ring on his finger. “But you are a true Wakandan. I’m sure the director of the outreach program will allow interns from time-to-time to come and assist.”

Peter scrunched his face. “Are you hiring me as an intern?”

“No! What? You think we hire whoever we first get off the streets?” Shuri joked, lightly punching Peter in the shoulder. “I’ll need a resume, five recommendation letters and, of course, a criminal background check. Need to make sure you aren’t a psychopath.”

“Shoot,” Peter snapped his fingers in disappointment. “I think that compromises my chances then.”

Shuri stared. “You have a record?”

“Kidding, Shuri.”

“Hey guys! You’re missing it!”

Peter and Shuri turned as one toward Ned, who pointed in the direction of a massive green statue. Shuri’s eyes enlarged. There stood Lady Liberty in all her glory. The symbol of America. The height of cool of icons. Shuri stepped close to the rail, looking up with her mouth agape.

“You want your picture, Shuri?”

It was Harry who asked. Shuri nodded, but pulled Peter along with her as she got into position right in front of the statue. Harry focused the camera on them and took a few snaps.

“Come on, Parker! Smile! What? You got a frog in your mouth or something? Jesus…” Harry commented as he finished his last snap. “Okay. I got a few pictures. Take a look and let me know.”

Harry passed the phone back to her. Shuri scrolled through the five photos Harry took. They all looked fine to her. She smiled in the picture, hand on the railing and the other in holding onto Peter’s hand. Peter stood beside her. He wasn’t smiling as big as her, but a little smile showed on his face. He looked happy, but in a quiet manner. Must be nice for him. To peacefully enjoy moments without the media shoving cameras in his face.

The fact they had not been noticed yet by the public surprised Shuri. It was one of T’Challa’s concerns about the two of them going out in public. He feared that Peter’s popularity may cause a riot or some kind of ill-omened encounter. Yet, his fears were so far invalid. No one recognized him. Or her. The strangers around them only saw touristy teenagers, happy to be traveling together.

The ferry docked and they all lined up to get off the boat and explore the island. Shuri took more photos, a few of just the statue and one of her mimicking the statue as she wore her Lady Liberty foam crown. She wanted to go up to the top, but to her utter dismay, the entrance to the top was closed due to high winds.

At least she got the chance to go inside the statue, reading about its history and construction. The group walked around the island, paying quarters to look through the telescopes to get an up-close view of the Manhattan skyline. Shuri asked for a group picture, having Ayo take the photograph.

They all gathered around one of the telescopes. Shuri loped an arm around Peter’s shoulders as he leaned up against the telescope. Harry stood on the other side of the telescope with Ned in the back and Michelle squatting in front, pushing her crown further up to her hairline.

Ayo took one picture and returned it to Shuri. Ayo was lucky that it was a great photo the first time around. They took a small break by the seawall, sitting up on it and eating snacks they purchased from the little café.

“Okay, but seriously,” Harry said as he licked his orange sorbet. “Captain America or Iron Man? Come on, Parker. Which one?”

“It would obviously be Iron Man,” Ned claimed. “Mr. Stark found him.”

“Geez, Ned. You make it seem as if I was some lost kid or something,” Peter commented. “And, I like them both. I don’t see why I need to pick one or another.”

“In case they get into another fight,” Harry said. “What about you, princess?”

“Well… I think,” Shuri began, but noticed Harry’s odd look. “What?”

“He meant me,” Michelle clarified for her. “He calls me that even though I told him to stop it.” She proceeded to glare at Harry.

Harry nonchalantly shrugged. “Old habit.”

“It’s a bad habit,” Michelle returned. “And, I wouldn’t pick either of those two.”

“Oh, that’s cheap,” Ned argued. “You have to pick an Avenger.”

“Then Black Widow,” Michelle answered, finishing up her snack and folding the trash in her palm. She looked to Shuri. “What about you?”

“Black Panther,” Shuri responded instantly. “Gotta represent.”

Ned lowered his bag of chips. “Hmm… for me, I’m going to say Iron Man. Because he makes cool things.”

“Really?” Michelle said.

“What? He can make me a cool outfit or some kind of weapon,” Ned defended his answer. “Then I can be a cool hero too.”

“You don’t need a cool outfit or a weapon to be a hero,” Peter said to Ned. “Remember? You saved my life without any of that. It only takes courage to do the right thing.”

Michelle squinted at Peter. “Wow. You going all philosophical on us there, Peter?”

“It’s the—”

A ripping scream sliced through Peter’s rebuttal. Everyone shot up to their feet, snapping in the direction of the horrible sound. Peter leaned over the seawall. Shuri followed, bending over to see what the cause of the curdling scream and saw the source.

A woman was on her knees, arms dangling over the pier as they stretch to something splashing haphazardly in the waves of the harbor sea. The woman kept screaming, frantically and futilely trying to reach the tip of the waves. Shuri examined closer and saw a small hand poking out of the water, tiny stubs of fingers curling to grasp onto anything solid.

Peter moved quickly. He shed his coat in one swift movement, leaping on top of the seawall with ease. Shuri glanced up at him. “Peter—”

But Peter already dove right into the sea. Shuri’s mouth dropped as she watched Peter submerge into the transient waves of aquamarine. A moment later, Peter’s head broke the surface, a few yards away from the drowning child.

Shuri screamed. “Peter!”

Peter swam forward and Shuri realized he was not going to hear a word she said. She abandoned her own post, running to where the mother, surrounded by onlookers and others trying to help, cried and begged for someone to save her child. Shuri heard Ayo right behind her, but didn’t know what Ayo could do. After all, she was assigned to protect her. Not Peter. Or the drowning child.

Shuri squeezed herself through the crowd as park officials stormed down the wooden pier to the source of the incident. They were shouting at visitors to step aside, but Shuri ignored their request and kept in her pursuit to where she last saw Peter adrift.

She got to the spot of the hysterical mother and looked over the pier. The child was gone. No sign of splashing or any hand waving up from the surface. There was also no sign of Peter.

Shuri kept her eyes open, searching the sea. Light scattered over the sleek water’s surface. The hue of the sea ever changing, distorting her own vision to pinpoint anything.

But then someone shouted. “There he is!”

It was Michelle who found them. She had stood at Shuri’s side, peering into the sea and pointing up ahead. Shuri squinted and spotted two heads bobbing at the surface. Peter and a small child.

At this distance, Shuri struggled to see exactly what Peter was doing. He was moving, adjusting the child as he wrenched to free his arm out of the water. Then, there was a soft hiss in the wind and a string-like substance shot out from the water to the seawall.

A second later, Peter and the child flew up in the air, shooting out of the waters. Shuri concluded the string was actually web, meaning Peter snuck his web-shooters out of the compound.

Another spray of web clasped onto the seawall, marking their landing. Shuri abandoned the dock, turning away as onlookers gasped and awed over what they were witnessing. Ayo was with her as they sprinted off the dock to where Peter, with the child in his arms, climbed over the seawall with ease.

When Shuri arrived, Peter had the child on the ground, doing compressions on its chest. “Come on,” Peter muttered. “Don’t give up.”

“Move!” came Michelle’s voice as she dropped beside Peter. She took over for Peter, instructing him to hold the girl’s neck. “I’ve got a pulse.”

Michelle restarted the compressions and then put her mouth to the little girl’s. Shuri watched as Michelle breathed life into the girl, returning to the compressions again. Another breathe of life and the girl spluttered and choked up yellow liquid from her mouth and right at Michelle’s face.

Michelle didn’t say a word about it. She just slipped off her jacket and laid it on the girl’s body. “Gotta keep her warm,” Michelle said.

Shuri then got an idea. She dropped beside the child as well, removing her Kimoyo beads. She dropped one ball on the girl’s stomach. The beads checked the child’s vitals. “She’s in shock,” Shuri alerted Michelle and Peter.

“We need more heat,” Peter said.

“Already on it,” Shuri said, instructing the bead to register the body and emit heat to warm it.

The bead activated and a blue scan enveloped the child before steam waved off her. Peter and Michelle lifted their hands away as Shuri got to work. “There, her blood pressure is stabilizing,” Shuri announced just as the emergency crew arrived.

“Excuse us! Move please!” the crew barked as they arrived with a stretcher and equipment.

Shuri picked up her Kimoyo bead from the girl. It did its job. It warmed the girl’s body enough to keep her vitals from plummeting into a worse situation. The medics wrapped another blanket over the child, whose eyes peered up at her rescuer.

“Saved me,” the girl muttered to Peter.

Peter said nothing. He only watched as the medics bundled her up on the stretcher. The child’s mother reappeared, rushing to her daughter as she brushed the loose, wet strands from her forehead. She freely wept, telling her daughter of love and hope as the medics hurried to get her proper medical care (though, Shuri believed they already did).

“Princess?”

Ayo drew Shuri’s attention away from the evacuated girl. “Princess? We should leave.”

Shuri was confused by the suggestion when she realized that a crowd started to circle them. Many had their phones out, focused on them. She heard them speaking, shouting at them. Well, at Peter.

“Yo! Spider-man!” cried one man. “Over here!”

“Peter! Peter! Can you sign my—”

Shuri looked back at Ayo. “Yeah, best we leave.”

Ayo glanced to Peter. “UPetros!” she called. Peter jerked his head to Ayo. “Sishiya.”

Peter didn’t argue with her orders. He beckoned Michelle to follow Ayo and Shuri. He had to find Ned and Harry, who were somewhere on the island. Ayo kept the four of them together as they tried to push their way through the crowd to find their two missing friends.

“Peter! Over here!”

“Welcome home, Spider-man!”

“Hey! Hey! Peter! Can I get a selfie?”

Shuri took Peter’s hand and clasped it tight. Peter responded with the same pressure. Their silent promise to not leave the other behind. Ayo kept her staff up, blocking anyone who attempt to reach over what Ayo considered the boundary line. She even slapped a person’s phone out of their hand when it got shoved right in front of Shuri and Peter.

“Only warning,” Ayo stated to the individual before marching on.

Luckily, they found Ned and Harry. They were fighting their way to them as well. Ned passed Peter his coat and backpack. Peter threw his coat over him as Ned acted like a bodyguard for him, blocking people from getting any decent pictures of his friend.

Michelle stayed close too, using herself as a barrier to keep the rowdy people away. They reached the docks again and Ayo ordered the group onto a boat before she went to speak with the captain. A few minutes later, Shuri was watching the Lady Liberty shrink in size, almost becoming a figurine size as they docked at the Manhattan pier again.

Once they got off the boat, they found two, black SUVs awaiting them. Shuri’s shoulders dropped. That meant the tour was over.

Ayo directed Peter and Shuri to the first car and the others to the second car. “They shall take you home,” Ayo informed Ned, Michelle and Harry. “You do not discuss what occurred with press.”

“No. Never!” Ned responded on behalf of the group. Harry nodded in concession. Michelle bobbed her head once.

“Good,” Ayo said, with no emotion.

Peter, soaked and shivering a bit, said his goodbyes to his friends, apologizing for the shortened trip. They didn’t seem to mind, promising one another to see each other soon. For some kin dof video game night.

Ayo interrupted their goodbyes, barking at Peter. “Ukushiya ngoku, uPetros.”

Peter ended his farewells just as pedestrians paused, taking notice. Peter joined back to Shuri and Ayo, hoping into the car and closing the door, locking it to seal himself and Shuri in the back.

As the driver pulled the vehicle out of the park and down one of the main avenues of New York, Peter apologized to Shuri. “I’m sorry I ruined your trip.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did. I blew my cover.”

“Better you blew your cover than let a little girl drown,” Shuri reassured him. “I think your friends would agree.”

“Still sorry.”

Shuri looked at Peter’s puppy expression. “I had a good time. Definitely the best day in months,” she said. “Thank you. Really, Peter. Thanks for making me feel like a kid again. It’s been a long time since I simply got to be just a kid.”

“Good,” Peter said, that little smile returning. “What do you think of my friends? Cool, right?”

Shuri nodded. “Ndiyavuma.”

That silly grin spread. “I’m glad you liked them. They’re good people.”

Again, Shuri nodded. “How long have Harry and Michelle been dating?” she asked. “Or... did they recently break-up? It was hard to tell.”

Peter stared. Her question threw him off, leaving him a gaping fool as he tried to formulate a response. “I-I... wait... what?” he said. “You think Harry and MJ are...”

Shuri began to think maybe she got the wrong picture. “Oh... I didn’t know. I thought, with the way they were acting.”

Peter leaned his head against his hand, elbow propped up against the window. “Wow... no,” he said. “No, MJ and Harry aren’t dating. Nor did they ever date. They’re just friends.”

“Are you sure?” Shuri questioned. “Did you see the way Harry was around her?”

“I wasnt really watching.”

“He always had to be next to her in pictures,” Shuri said, taking out her phone. She opened her pictures. “See?”

Peter peaked at a few pictures. “Oh. Well, that doesn’t mean a thing.” 

Shuri snorted. “Oh, Peter,” she laughed a bit. “Uyi-idiot.”

“Wait? What did you say?” Peter asked, repeating the words to himself. “My Xhosa is rusty. Did you call me an idiot?"

“You’re oblivious,” Shuri pointed out to him. “Harry clearly has a crush on Michelle.”

Peter shook his head in denial. “Nah, I just don’t see it.”

“Really?”

Shuri challenged him. “Call him. Ask Harry if he likes Michelle.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Afraid to be wrong?”

“I just don’t care.”

Shuri smirked. “You’re afraid you’re wrong.”

They continued their banter, moving out of the relationship discussion and talking about the Accords and then Shuri examined all her purchases as they entered the compound. They strolled into the lobby of the residential apartments when they were met by Happy Hogan.

Happy didn’t say a word. He just held out his hand.

Peter deflated in one word. “Really?”

“Yep. Come on,” Happy said. “You know the rules.”

“But it wasn’t anything...”

“Kid.”

Peter heaved a sigh and snapped his web-shooters off his wrists. He surrendered them to Happy.

“He’s not mad,” Happy reassured Peter with a gentle pat on his shoulder. “Okay? You’re not in trouble.”

Peter grumbled and walked away from Happy. “I’m going to change out of my wet clothes,” he said to Shuri. “I’ll see you later?”

“Tomorrow,” Ayo answered for Shuri.

Peter flicked a nervous glance to Ayo. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he said. “Tomorrow. Yeah... of course.”

Shuri frowned at Ayo’s intervention. “See you tomorrow,” she said. “Have a good night.”

They parted ways and Shuri returned to her rented suite where her older brother sat waiting for her. When she walked in, still decked in her souvenir apparel, T’Challa raised a single brow. “What happened to my little sister?” he joked as he went to greet her. “It appears she has been imperialized by the colonizer.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Shuri deadpanned, “speaking of them, why did you send us back home? I didn’t even get the chance to walk across into Brooklyn.”

T’Challa tilted his head in confusion. “I didn’t send you back home.”

“What?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” T’Challa said. “I was told a few minutes ago that you returned to the compound. I thought it meant you finished your trip.”

Shuri gaped, stumped by the revelation. “Wait... you didn’t send those cars to get us from the ferry?”

“I heard about Liberty Island,” T’Challa responded, “but I did not order your trip to be cancelled.”

That was puzzling. “So, Ayo cancelled it for us?” Shuri looked back to Ayo, hurt by the betrayal. “I didn’t have to come back yet?”

Ayo shook her head. “It was not you who was recalled back to the compound,” she answered. “I received a message from Tony Stark requesting that Peter Parker be returned to the compound at once. I figured that if he had to return, you would want to as well. Am I wrong?”

No, she was not wrong. While she preferred to stay longer in New York, she wouldn’t enjoy it as much if Peter had to be shipped back to the compound. “Wait... Mr. Stark ordered the cars?”

Ayo nodded. “I received a coded message from Okoye on behalf of Stark.”

Shuri heard her brother sigh. “Yes, I passed on the message to Okoye that Tony wanted Peter to return home at once. I just did not think you would have come back with him.”

“We’re friends,” Shuri replied, surprised that her brother would think she would continue on without Peter with her. “Cannot leave a friend behind.”

T’Challa smiled at that response. “Very well, I’m sorry your trip was cut short,” he said. “But you can now have time to hang-out with me. Do some good, old-fashioned sibling bonding.”

“Like squabbling over who got what first?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of dinner.”

“That can work too.”

Shuri and T’Challa head to the kitchen to have a warm dinner. T’Challa again glanced over Shuri. “You’re not going to wear that silly headpiece, are you?”

Shuri straightened her foam crown. “Of course I am,” she confidently replied. “I’m a princess.”


	12. Media

NBC – _Meet the Press_

[Logo appears followed by NBC News]

CHUCK TODD (V.O.)

This Sunday, the Avengers assemble at the United Nations headquarters in New York to debate the newest Accords. Security is tight in and around the United Nations as Mr. Tony Stark, Captain America, Black Widow and others return to make a compromise that is beneficial for all.

CHUCK (cont’d.)

[appears at desk]

Joining me inside for analysis is _Politico_ writer, DANI COFFMAN. _The_ _Wall Street Journal_ columnist, FIONA SCHEILP. And, BOBBY HUNTER, editor of _National Review_.

Welcome to Sunday! It’s _Meet the Press_.

**FADE OUT** \- Background pictures and music plays over]

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

From NBC news of Washington, D.C., longest running show in television in history, this is _Meet the Press_ with Chuck Todd.

**CUE THE _MEET THE PRESS_ LOGO**

CHUCK

Good Sunday morning, today we are interviewing Mr. Stark’s press secretary in regards to the upcoming Accords and the details he can share with us. The past two years have been turbulent for the Avengers ever since the first Accords was signed into law. Both sides have debated the functionality of the Accords and its hindrance on personal freedom.

After last year’s attack at Midtown Tech, the Accords fell under public scrutiny when former Secretary Thaddeus Ross attacked unarmed, Peter Parker at his school due to his enhanced abilities. The public’s reactions to the brutality of the Accords against all enhanced individuals forced the United States and the rest of the world to scrape the old Accords in favor of a newer, better version.

CHUCK (cont’d)

Here with me now is press secretary of Stark Industries, THOMAS DELANCY.

Mr. Delancy—it’s good to have you back on _Meet the Press_.

THOMAS DELANCY

It’s good to be here, Chuck. How are you?

CHUCK

I’m good. I’m good. So, today is the big day where all the Avengers are coming into New York City to discuss the new Accords. Now, there hasn’t been any developments about these Accords since a month ago. What can you tell us about the Accords and the central goal of it?

THOMAS

Certainly. Well, as you remember, the Sokovia Accords was meant to keep enhanced individuals in check and held accountable for their actions. However, it did impede on their personal freedom and was a bit careless with their identities.  And it gave a lot of power to the Secretary of State, who at the time, abused his powers and responsibilities.

CHUCK

Mr. Stark was quoted saying, “‘Secretary Ross treats the Avengers as his own personal army for his own agenda. Anyone who is not willing to go along with it are labeled as threats and locked away without any of their constitutional rights.’”

What can you tell us about the treatment of the Avengers after the Sokovia Accords were signed?

THOMAS

Well, Chuck, I can say that the Avengers were treated like a personal army to Ross. Mr. Stark and others found the man to be aggressive, apathetic and controlling. He deliberately refused to give full accounts and evidence to the UN council in order to get his way. This type of abusive of powers is unacceptable and damaging to not only the reputation of the Accords, but also to the Avengers themselves.

We have to remember that, while they may have extraordinary abilities or equipment that average people don’t possess, they are still _human_. They cannot be treated as a personal army for one man.

CHUCK

And these new Accords is to ensure that one man is not fully in charge of the Avengers?

THOMAS

These newest Accords is to create a compromise between the Avengers and/or enhanced individuals and the world governments. Not one person is directly in charge of the group. We don’t want another dictatorship again.

CHUCK

What about children with enhanced powers? There have been talks of a ‘Peter Parker Clause’ or the ‘Parker Laws’ that are to be written into the new Accords. This section is in regards to children under the age of twenty-one and what they can/cannot do, is that correct?

THOMAS

Um… no. I know it’s quite hard to know what it is as there isn’t a full copy of the draft. But the Parker Laws… its goal is to establish a mentor-protégé partnership. So, the mentors will be held accountable to the protégés’ actions until they are of age. And, it’s also to help protect their identities so that they can grow up without the strains of the public knowing who they are and being a target against criminals.

CHUCK

Are they considered Avengers, then?

THOMAS

(Shaking his head)

No. No, they are not Avengers. They are _pre_ -Avengers. They have a choice to go onto becoming an Avenger or living a normal life. It’s up to them. Until then, they can experience both normal/Avenger lifestyles while they train to better their abilities.

CHUCK

What are the chances that Captain Steve Rogers will agree to these new Accords? He didn’t agree with the last accord nor did many of other Avengers. It was a crisis.

THOMAS

Well, Captain Rogers has had a hand in drafting these new Accords, so I will say there is a high chance for him to agree with the final decision. Again, the Avengers are working together to smooth out the bumps in the road. They are returning as a team again.

CHUCK

Okay, I will leave it there. Thank you, Thomas, for coming on the show and sharing your views. Much appreciated.

THOMAS

Oh, thank you, Chuck. It was great to be on.

CHUCK

(addressing audience)

When we come back, we will go into discussion with our analysts to discuss the rewards and risks of the latest Accords Summit.

**FADE OUT** – Commercial break

* * *

E! – _Entertainment Tonight_

[E! Logo appears with music]

**ZOOM IN** – center stage

JASON KENNEDY

I’m your host, Jason Kennedy. Right here on E!, we sent our team of top-notch reporters to New York City to cover the Accords summit at the United Nations. We managed to get a brief video clip of the legendary and extraordinaire, Mr. Tony Stark!

JASON KENNEDY (cont’d)

The hero and now, father, arrived outside the UN to a massive crowd. As always, he waved, photographed and signed a few autographs. The best part though was that he spoke exclusively to our reporter, Nancy King.

**SWITCH TO NEW VIDEO FOOTAGE** – focus on Tony Stark exiting car

NANCY KING (V.O.)

As you can see, it’s crazy down here in New York this morning as the Avengers arrive at the UN to debate the new Accords. Arriving now is Mr. Tony Stark. He’s coming this way. Hold on—

(rustling noise form camera moving to follow Nancy)

NANCY (cont’d)

Mr. Stark! A word please? What can you tell our viewers about the Accords?

**FOCUS ON STARK -** Tony Stark, wearing suit, tie and signature sunglasses.

TONY STARK

That they will be better than the last one.

NANCY (V.O.)

Congratulations on becoming a father!

TONY

Thanks.

NANCY (V.O.)

Is it a boy or a girl? What’s its name?”

TONY

(smiling, but shakes head)

Have a good day.

[Tony walks away]

NANCY (V.O.)

What about Peter Parker? Is he here?

[Tony keeps walking away until he walks out of the camera’s view.]

**SWITCH BACK TO MAIN SHOW – Jason Kennedy standing in front of the last captured image of Tony Stark.**

JASON

Mr. Stark went inside right after that, but Nancy is still there, interviewing people who traveled as far as Asia to the UN to witness history in the making.

**FADE OUT TO ANOTHER CLIP**

Two young women are wearing cosplay costumes of Thor and Black Widow.

NANCY (V.O.)

Where are you two ladies from?

FIRST WOMAN (Thor)

We came all the way from Hong Kong.

NANCY (V.O.)

Hong Kong? Wow! That’s quite the travel. You came all this way to see the Avengers?

FIRST WOMAN

Er… yes. We want to be here when history happens.

SECOND WOMAN (Black Widow)

And to see Spider-man. We hope to see Peter Parker today. We are sad to miss him yesterday. We went to the Statue of Liberty yesterday morning, so we missed him there.

FIRST WOMAN

Told you we should have gone in the afternoon.

NANCY (V.O.)

You guys like Peter Parker?

BOTH WOMEN

Yes!

FIRST WOMAN

We support him. He is the bestest hero.

SECOND WOMAN

After Black Widow.

**SWITCH TO ANOTHER PERSON**

African American male, wearing a shirt with Captain America’s shield on it.

NANCY (V.O.)

Are you hoping they finish today with a new set of accords?

MAN

I hope so. I mean, I guess you gotta fight what you believe in. You gotta do what you think is right, so I hope it works out. You know? It’s not the Avengers without Captain America and the other guys. Avengers can’t just be Iron Man. It can’t.

NANCY (V.O.)

Would you ever like to meet Captain America?

MAN

(laughs)

Who wouldn’t?

**SWITCH BACK TO MAIN STAGE – Jason stands in front of screen**

JASON

I agree! Who wouldn’t want to meet any of the Avengers? Honestly, this summit is almost like a movie premiere based on the crowd size, paparazzi and these heroes arriving to loud screams and cheers. Okay, next up, is Kylie Jenner moving on from Travis Scott? Find out after these commercial breaks.

* * *

TMZ

[TMZ Live logo appears with music and cubicles in the background]

**ZOOM IN – A man with a Big Gulp walks onto the screen**

HARVEY LEVIN

And welcome to TMZ Live! I’m Harvey Levin, here. And, now let’s start! What’s happening in the world?

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

TMZ presents… SUPERHERO BOY BAND

**SHOWS A PHOTOSHOPPED IMAGE OF THE AVENGERS DECKED IN ROCKERSTAR ATTIRE**

**SWITCH TO TMZ OFFICE ON MALE REPORTER**

MALE REPORTER (first)

So… as everyone knows by now, the Avengers assembled at the UN today.

HARVEY

Yeah. Hard to miss that one.

FEMALE REPORTER (first)

Yeah, but they didn’t do anything. Nothing got done.

**PAUSE ON FEMALE REPORTER**

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

No—of course not. That’s how it all works. Show up. Do nothing.

**UNFREEZE FRAME TO CONTINUE LIVE**

MALE REPORTER (first)

Well, apparently, it’s just one of many meetings to take place. But, we did manage to capture some photographs of the Avengers.

**SWITCH SCREEN. SLIDESHOW OF PHOTOS TAKEN**

Photos of Tony Stark speaking with King T’Challa. Captain America huddled with Falcon and Black Widow. War Machine sharing a smile with Falcon. Ant-Man conversing with Captain America and Tony Stark listening to Vision talk with Scarlet Witch nearby.

HARVEY

It’s unbelievable how cordial they are after that massive rift two years ago.

FEMALE REPORTER (second)

Some people forgive quicker than others.

MALE REPORTER (second)

I don’t think that’s the case here. I think they are just compromising.

MALE REPORTER (third)

Well, they’re like family right? You fight and make up. That’s how it is.

**TURN TO OLD PHOTOGRAPH OF THE TWO AVENGER FACTIONS FIGHTING EACH OTHER**

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Family Drama! Wouldn’t want to join that family if that is how they work out their differences.

**TURN BACK TO TMZ OFFICE**

HARVEY

Wouldn’t know. They’re pretty hush-hush on their private lives, right?

MALE REPORTER (first)

Well, except for Stark. He’s very public about himself.

FEMALE REPORTER (third)

Not really. He’s public only about his public image, but his personal life—he’s pretty quiet about it. His wife just gave birth and they haven’t even told anyone if it’s a boy or girl. Like, E! asked, but he didn’t respond.

FEMALE REPORTER (second)

Pepper Potts isn’t his wife. They are engaged.

FEMALE REPORTER (third)

Really?

CAST

Yeah.

HARVEY

Do you think they will ever get married?

MALE REPORTER (third)

Well, they have a kid now. Supposedly. So, I would think so. Yeah.

HARVEY

Weirder things have happened, I guess. So, what happened at the UN, then? Nothing?

MALE REPORTER (first)

It’s was all secret and everything. Too much security and people refused to talk about it. But, everyone was there.

FEMALE REPORTER (fourth)

Everyone, but Peter Parker.

**SWITCH SCREEN TO A SNAPSHOT OF PETER PARKER**

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Where in the world is Peter Parker?

**RETURN TO TMZ OFFICE**

HARVEY

Wait… Peter Parker wasn’t there? Isn’t _he_ the reason this whole thing is happening?

MALE REPORTER (first)

Yeah, but he wasn’t in attendance today. Or at least, he didn’t arrive with the others. Nor was he seen with them.

FEMALE REPORTER (second)

Wonder why not? I mean, he’s a pretty big deal now.

HARVEY

(sarcastically)

Oh, really?

FEMALE REPORTER (second)

Uh. Yeah! He’s basically everyone’s favorite, little hero. Most of the people who traveled to the UN wanted to see him.

FEMALE REPORTER (first)

Especially since he saved that little girl’s life yesterday.

**SWITCH TO STATUE LIBERTY IMAGE**

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Who couldn’t forget that rescue? Swept her right off her feet.

**RETURN TO TMZ OFFICE**

HARVEY

Maybe he’s recovering from his trauma as well. Isn’t that the excuse Stark Industries used when he was rushed out of the conference a few weeks ago?

MALE REPORTER (third)

Yeah, but man, that kid experienced a lot. Being shot and on the run for a year. I can see why he can’t handle reporters in his face. Questioning and judging him.

MALE REPORTER (fourth)

Yeah, he always looks sad and lost in the videos and photographs taken by the media.

MALE REPORTER (sixth)

I don’t see why he is. He should be reveling in all the attention. Get the girls. Fame. Money. Be a playboy, son!

MALE REPORTER (fourth)

Come on, man. He’s like fourteen or something.

MALE REPORTER (fifth)

What? That’s every teenage boy’s dream! He should live it up!

FEMALE REPORTER (fifth)

Don’t you go and try to corrupt him. I don’t need my Baby Daddy to become a jerk.

CAST

Ewww.

What?

Come on, Sharon!

SHARON

What? Hey, can’t a girl have a crush?

HARVEY

Yeah, but you’re twenty-five years old and he’s like… twelve! That’s more like a pedophile.

SHARON

Oh, screw you guys. It’s not okay for women to date younger men, but men can fuck women twenty years their junior?

MALE REPORTER (fifth)

Yeah… when they are above the age of eighteen.

SHARON

Yeah, well, he will be in like two more years.

**FREEZE PICTURE ON SHARON. DARKEN. JAIL TIME STAMP OVER HER HEAD** ANNOUNCER

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Oh, Sharon… orange is not your color!

**SWITCH BACK TO LIVE**

HARVEY

Sharon, I think after this, the police will be knocking on your door.

(laughter is heard around the office)

Anyway, isn’t that kid dating someone? Didn’t we talk about that yesterday?

FEMALE REPORTER (second)

He was seen with friends out and about in New York City on Saturday. And his friends included the Princess of Wakanda.

**A CROWN OF HEARTS FALLS IN FRONT OF THE SCREEN.**

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Is another royal marriage in the future?

**SWITCH BACK TO TMZ LIVE**

HARVEY

Are they dating? I don’t think we answered that question.

SHARON

They aren’t dating.

MALE REPORTER (third)

You’re only saying it because you don’t want it to be true.

SHARON

No, I’m being serious. I think they are only friends. Apparently, it was the princess’s first time in New York.

HARVEY

Really?

FEMALE REPORTER

Well, eyewitnesses of yesterday’s event say that the two looked rather comfortable and cozy with one another.

MALE REPORTER (first)

They said the same thing about the other girl. The one that went to the same school as him.

HARVEY

There’s another girl? What is this? A love triangle already?

**TRIANGLE APPEARS WITH PETER, SHURI AND MYSTERIOUS GIRL FACES AT EACH END.**

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Not another Teen Romance story!

**RETURN TO TMZ LIVE**

HARVEY

Wait… so there are two girls now?

MALE REPORTER (second)

Yeah. There’s been photos and video clips of Parker with the two girls.

HARVEY

Really? Huh. What’s this other girl’s name?

FEMALE REPORTER (third)

No one knows. Yet, at least.

HARVEY

How can no one know? Everyone knows someone!

CAST

(all shrug, helplessly)

HARVEY

(sighs)

Well, what’s happening in this triangle then? I mean, do the girls even get along?

MALE REPORTER (second)

Apparently, they do. Onlookers have said that the group seemed to have gotten along well together.

HARVEY

So, no cat fights. Nothing like that, huh? Do we at least know which one Parker prefers?

MALE REPORTER (second)

Well, onlookers say that Parker seemed very close to the Princess, but also comfortable around the other girl too. So… kind of hard to tell who he likes more.

FEMALE REPORTER (first)

Well, if he is dating the princess, I wonder what that will mean for him as an Avenger. Or whatever he is.

MALE REPORTER (first)

What do you mean?

FEMALE REPORTER (first)

Well, if he dates her, will he travel to Wakanda? Or will she travel here? If they get married, does that mean he has to give up being an Avenger and will he have to move to Wakanda?

SHARON

He better not fucking move to Africa. No way in hell!

HARVEY

(waves his hand down)

Let’s not get carried away here, ladies.

**SWTICH TO A CARTOON FIGURE OF A WOMAN SEDUCTIVELY PULLING DOWN HER PANTY A BIT**

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Hold your panties ladies!

* * *

The View

**CUE CLIPS OF THE SUMMIT MEETING AT THE UN -** bylines rolling underneath

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Let's light up these hot topics with Whoopi, Sarah Haines, Joy Behar, Sunny Hostin and Meghan McCain.

Now, let's get things started...

FADE TO STAGE - hosts walk on to cheers. Hosts wave to the audience as they take their seats.

WHOOPIE

Thank you! Thank you! Wow... how are you dressed like that? It's like you are ready to go to a club. Look at those golden pumps.

SARAH

(laughs)

I know! I know! I just saw these and I had to buy them. Wanted to wear them. No, I heard your music earlier in your dressing room and just changed to go dancing there. But, then we got called out to the show.

HOSTS

(laughs)

WHOOPIE

I play some good music. All right, good morning everyone! And welcome to The View. New York has been crazy for forty-eight hours now. With all these Avengers and government leaders coming into the city to participate in the Accords Summit. They are on their third day today to discuss the accords, but... has anyone know what they are talking about?

MEGHAN

No, it's all been pretty quiet. Security is tight. No one is allowed to discuss it outside the premise to avoid any backlash or public distress. A few of media outlets like  _The New York Times, Washington Post and MSNBC_  have received a few snippets of what they are talking about behind those closed doors, but again, the general knowledge is that no one really knows.

JOY

Why are they keeping it all a secret? I mean, it's our right to know what kind of laws they are creating that will establish when, where, how heroes can save our cities and civilians.

SARAH

Well, I think... because they don't want anyone to undermine or try to manipulate the situation to their own benefits.

WHOOPIE

What manipulation?

SUNNY

Do you mean that they don't want the public to know any of it until it's all complete?

SARAH

Exactly! Because with only half information, people may make the wrong assumption or there's confusion.

JOY

That stills seems ridiculous to me. Be frank with the public. That's why all this is happening. Because they weren't honest with the people.

WHOOPIE

I thought they are doing all this over again because the military attacked Peter Parker.

JOY

(scoffs)

No—it’s because our government was dishonest with us. We weren't aware of what the Accords were designed for. We mislabeled the Avengers and allowed biases of others to influence how we view them.

MEGHAN

You blame the politicians for our foolishness?

JOY

I blame idiots for spreading it.

SUNNY

Some could argue it’s the media’s fault for not doing their due diligence. It wasn't until the attack on Midtown that the media and public demanded of whole draft and mechanics of how the Accords worked. And it turned out that the general public didn't approve of it at all.

WHOOPIE

Well, the consensus is that the public should hear what topics they are discussing and assessing. It makes the public feel like they don't get much of a say.

SUNNY

But... they aren't exactly the ones who will be affected too much. It's the Avengers who will be affected the most on these new Accords. The public, while supportive or not supportive depending who you ask, doesn't have a complete awareness of what goes on behind the scenes of such like the Attack on New York, Sokovia and even in Indonesia.

JOY

And that makes it okay to keep the public out of it?

SUNNY

I didn’t say that—

JOY

This is our planet too. Most of us were here in New York City when it started raining aliens. Lives here were affected. And will continued to be affected if the Avengers have a leash that keeps them from helping on certain scenarios and I think as a civilian, I have the right to know what they are deciding on what constitutes the Avengers to come and help.

SARAH

Certainly, but remember this isn't simply just what the Avengers can provide for the world. It's also about their personal lives.

WHOOPIE

You mean in regards to kids like Peter Parker? He hasn't made an appearance at the UN these past two days. People are wondering if he's going to participate at all.

SUNNY

Well, actually, he arrived at the UN early this morning. A photograph managed to snap a shot of him walking in the backdoors, away from the crowds. He was with... oh, yeah. There are the pictures that are circulating the Internet.

**PHOTOS OF PETER PARKER WALKING BESIDE A BODYGUARD ARE PUT ON THE MASSIVE SCREEN BEHIND THE HOSTS**

SUNNY

Yeah. So, these pictures were taken very early this morning. He was seen with Mr. Stark's old bodyguard walking into the headquarters.

WHOOPIE

Ahhh... so he finally shows his face since Saturday.

JOY

I was wondering if he was ever going to make an appearance. I mean, he's the reason they are doing this whole Accords thing over again. He should be there.

MEGHAN

Well, I think they were holding him off because the first two days were in regards to the actual Avengers. Not... enhanced humans in general. I mean, that's my view of it.

SARAH

You're probably right, Meghan.

WHOOPIE

All right. We will be right back.

**CUE _THE VIEW_ LOGO. CREDITS OF UPCOMING TOPICS ROLLING AT THE BOTTOM.**

* * *

CBS 2 Local NY news station

**CUE BACKGROUND MUSIC –** [CBS LOGO APPEARS ON SCREEN]

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

You are watching CBS 2 News in high definition.

**FADE OUT**

**ZOOM OUT ON ANCHOR’S DESK – FOCUS ON BOTH MALE AND FEMALE REPORTER**

KRISTINE JOHNSON

Good evening, folks. I’m Kristine Johnson.

MAURICE DUBOIS

And, I’m Maruice Dubois.

**FOCUS IN ON MALE ANCHOR**

DUBOIS

As you might have guessed, the Accords Summit is still continuing here in New York City. Thousands of supporters and protestors have flocked to the capital to share their input and to catch a glimpse of the superheroes.

While many of the former Avengers have entered the United Nations building these past few days, there was one glaring omission: Peter Parker. The boy who started it all. But, that all changed early this morning, take a look.

**SWITCH TO A PRE-RECORDED VIDEO AND PICTURES** – Peter Parker entering the United Nations building with bodyguard. Peter Parker leaving the building with bodyguard and friend. Video clips of Peter Parker walking to a bodega during lunch hour.

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Peter Parker was seen entering the United Nations early this morning. Rather than enter in the front like the others, he opted to sneak into the building through the back doors. He didn’t come out until around early afternoon, when he and the princess, Shuri of Wakanda, stepped out for a bite to eat at the local bodega.

**SWITCH TO NEW VIDEO CLIP** – interview with employee at the bodega.

FEMALE REPORTER (V.O.)

How was it meet the famous Peter Parker? To have him enter your shop?

JUAN BLANCO

Err… it was okay. I am in shock. I never thought one would enter here. It was (inhales) crazy.

FEMALE REPORTER (V.O.)

What was he like? Did you get a chance to really talk to him?

JUAN

No. Not much talk. He asked for food. Paid. He was nice. Quiet. Kind.

**SWITCH TO NEW VIDEO CLIP** – interview with a customer who was inside the bodega at the time.

FEMALE REPORTER (V.O.)

What was the first thought that popped in your head when Peter Parker walked in through that door.

SUSAN EDKINS

That I was hallucinating and should have taken my heart medication.

(chuckles)

It was surreal. I honestly couldn’t believe it at first.

FEMALE REPORTER (V.O.)

What was he like? Did you get a chance to talk to him?

SUSAN

No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to bother him. He and his friend were talking. You could tell that they were good friends, so I didn’t want to interrupt. Plus, they had those fierce looking bodyguards with them. Was afraid that I would get hurt if I approached.

FEMALE REPORTER (V.O.)

Still—at least you can say that you saw him.

SUSAN

True. Very true. Um, he was such a nice boy though. So polite and kind. Quiet, but kind. He spoke Spanish to the cashier. Completely lit up the cashier’s face.

Overall, a nice boy. And I feel terribly sorry that he got pulled into all this trouble.

**RETURN TO THE MAIN SHOW** – zoom out on anchor desk to see both anchors

DUBOIS

Well, there you have it. Peter Parker had finally made it onto the scene. I wonder what took so long for him to make an appearance.

JOHNSON

May have took him three days, but he’s here now. And, I must say, I’m happy to hear Mr. Parker is a good person.

DUBOIS

Yeah?

JOHNSON

(nodding her head)

Yeah, my young niece absolutely adores him and has such a big crush on him. It would break her heart if she learned he was a mean person.

DUBOIS

No doubt. A lot of hearts will be broken.

JOHNSON

(laughing a bit)

Are you insinuating that Mr. Parker is in a relationship with the Princess?

DUBOIS

No, but many observers have noted the closeness between the two. Sources say that Peter Parker and Princess Shuri are often seen hanging around one another, and were seen holding hands in the video when he rescued the drowning girl. I know… sounds a bit of a stretch.

JOHNSON

A little.

DUBOIS

But, inside sources have also remarked on how close the two are. Wouldn’t be a big surprise if they came out as a couple.

JOHNSON

Well, that’s all ‘she said, he said’ talk. So far, neither party has made a statement about their relationship and probably will not.

DUBOIS

Probably not. Rumors are circulating that Stark is overly protective of Mr. Parker. Won’t tell anyone anything about him nor allow him outside the compound.

JOHNSON

I don’t believe that.

DUBOIS

Why? Because he’s Tony Stark?

JOHNSON

No, because I don’t think Tony is the kind of person to house arrest a kid. As for the information, I understand that. The kid deserves privacy or at least, what little he has left of it.

DUBOIS

Agreed. I wouldn’t tell the media anything personal about my kids like that.

JOHNSON

And, based off what Juan and Susan said about him, it looks to me that Mr. Parker is a very private person. Doesn’t like to make a big show for the purpose of attention.

DUBOIS

The opposite of Mr. Stark then?

JOHNSON

Exactly!

(faces the front camera)

All right, in the next segment, a fire burned a double-story home in Queens. Luckily no one was injured, but what caused the fire and how do we prevent more fires from occurring throughout the city?

And the stock market looks to take another tumble. Learn how this might affect you. Soon, after the break.

**FADE OUT** – Commercials.

* * *

MSNBC – The Rachel Maddow Show

**FADE IN** – [cue music and logo]

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

You are watching MSNBC, The Rachel Maddow Show. Your host, Rachel Maddow.

**ZOOM IN** – Rachel Maddow at her desk.

RACHEL MADDOW

Thanks to you at home for joining us at this hour. Much appreciated. Tonight—tonight we kind of have a big show for you. About an hour ago, the United Nations and Avengers approved the first draft of what they called the New York Accords. Take a look.

**SWITCH SCREEN WITH PRE-RECORDED CLIP OF ANNOUNCER**

UNITED NATIONS PRESS SECRETARY

We are humbled to announce that the Accords Summit has concluded well and with our first draft of what is to be known as the New York Accords.

There will still be a few more months and summits before finalizing, but everyone is pleased to produce the first draft as it signals the step forward in a healthier, working relationship between the Avengers and governments.

**FADE OUT**

**ZOOM BACK TO MAIN STAGE** – Rachel Maddow at her desk.

RACHEL

Well, that’s great news! It took only five days, but the Avengers and the world’s greatest politicians have come to a truce and drafted the first New York Accords. As to whether they will be passed still seems to be up in the air.

Tomorrow, the Avengers plan to host a press conference of their own to discuss the New York Accords with the media. In attendance will be Mr. Tony Stark, Captain Steve Rogers, Colonel James Rhodes, Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson, King T’Challa, and the A.I., Vision. They will be there to discuss and answer questions about the New York Accords.

RACHEL (cont’d)

Missing from that line up is, of course, Thor, Dr. Bruce Banner—both MIA since 2015. Scott Lang, who made only a few, brief appearances at the summit. Hawkeye, who has been MIA since 2016. And, more importantly, Peter Parker.

The kid who started the revolution will not be in attendance of the press conference. Although, from what we have uncovered, Parker will be at the United Nation’s headquarters during that time. He just won’t be part of the conference.

RACHEL (cont’d)

We’re going to take a short break and when we return, we will discuss some key issues in the New York Accords and how it may affect our lives. Stay tune.

**FADE OUT –** Commercial break


	13. May Parker II

"How long do you plan to sit in front of the TV?" May called as she peered down the instruction list.

May busied around the kitchen, trying to make an authentic Indian dish while Peter stayed slumped on the couch, idly flipping through channels with the occasional sigh. 

“I don't know," Peter answered. "I have nothing else to do.”

"Why don't you see what Tony is doing?" she proposed. "Maybe you two can tinker with DUMBO?"

Peter shook his head. "Nah, that's okay. I think he's busy anyway."

May glanced at Peter. "You're still upset with Tony?"

“No.”

“So, yes," May concluded, knowing well enough to read between the lines. "Honey... look. He only took your web-shooters away because he didn't want you to go off doing heroic things at the moment. Especially with the Accords not finalized.”

"Yeah, I know, but… it’s not fair,” Peter grumbled, crossing his arms in frustration. “People still need help.”

“That’s why we have the police,” May reminded her nephew. “They aren’t there to look cool.”

Peter gave her a look. “You know what I mean, Aunt May. The police can’t save everyone.”

“And neither can superheroes,” May countered, stirring in the homemade sauce with the chicken. “I know you want to run off and be Spider-man again, but you have to wait a little longer. The Accords will be finalized soon enough. Just not this week.

“In the meantime, you can act like the kid you are,” May said, wiping some of the sauce that got on her on a paper towel. “Go out and have some fun. See a movie with Ned. Or build more Lego sets. Or start a rock band. That’s a cool thing teenagers do these days.”

Peter flipped his eyebrow high up his forehead. “Aunt May? I don’t think rock bands need trumpet players.”

May shrugged. “Well, who knows? Maybe they do. You don’t know unless you try.”

Peter slouched further into the couch. “I’d rather be Spider-man again.”

May put down her wooden spoon. “I know. Even though I personally would rather you didn’t, I know I can’t stop you from becoming who you want to be. Not that I would. You always had such a good heart, Peter,” she said, looking at her downtrodden nephew. “You’ll be Spider-man again. But right now, we want you to be Peter Parker. Because, honestly, I find that man more fun to be around than Spider-man.”

She returned to her cooking, trying to find the right spices she needed for the rice. Cooking Indian food was harder than she anticipated. She honestly thought she understood the instructions, but maybe she was in over her head on it. Oh well! She was sure it would taste great no matter what.

Peter turned the television off and meandered to the kitchen counter. He dropped his arms on the counter, examining their dinner with a wary eye. “What are you making?”

“Chicken marsala.”

Peter took another look at the meal. “Oh, yeah, I see it,” he said with his best straight face. “Looks good.”

Always too kind. “I only hope it taste better than it looks,” May commented, checking in on the rice. “It’s almost done. I think."

Peter didn’t match her thrill to the idea of eating the cooked meal. He only nodded, lips pressed down to a straight line as he slowly backed up from the kitchen. “Great… well, I’m going to go to my room and—”

A shrill interrupted whatever Peter was about to say.

“I’ll get it,” Peter said, heading to the door. He answered it. “Shuri?”

Princess Shuri granted herself entry, stepping inside their apartment with a grin. “Hello, Ms. Parker,” she greeted and sniffed the aroma floating about in the air. “Oh… what a, um, lovely smell.”

May cocked an eyebrow in Shuri’s direction as she added another spice into the mix. Her complimentary words did not hide the dither in the princess’s tone. And the cringed expression didn’t help either.

But May didn’t comment on that at all. “Thank you, Shuri,” she said. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, thank you.”

Peter finally got out of his stupor. “Wait… what brings you here?” he questioned the princess. “I thought you had some kind of delegation dinner you had to attend with your brother?”

“Oh, that? Yeah, I got out of it,” Shuri answered, nonchalantly. “Told him I wasn’t feeling well.”

“And he bought it?”

“Oh, sure,” Shuri remarked. “Even he thinks my sarcasm is an illness.”

That brought a tinge of a smile to Peter’s face. “Yeah, well, I heard it can be irritating.”

Shuri socked him in the shoulder. “Watch it,” she warned. “Unokuba ngumhlophe ingonyama, kodwa inkosazana.”*

May watched Peter tilt his head apologetically, understanding every word she said to him. “Uxolo,” he said and she accepted whatever apology he offered to her. “So, did you come to tell me something or—”

“I’ve been working on something and I want your opinion on it,” Shuri responded. “I was hoping we could go to the lab, but if you are about to eat dinner…”

Shuri glanced at May’s cooking preparations. Already, May knew Peter preferred to be off in his lab with Shuri than taste-testing her home-cooked meal. Not that she was a terrible cook. She’s only good at the basic stuff, not the exquisite cuisines.

And since Shuri was departing tomorrow for Wakanda, May might as well let Peter have the night with his friend. May got a hold of Peter’s attention and nudged in the direction of the door.

“Go ahead, Peter,” May said to her nephew. “You need to get out of the apartment anyway.”

“But you cooked…”

“I know. I know, but I’ll spare your taste buds tonight,” May said with some cheek. “You kids have fun and please… no more explosives. Okay? You woke up Maria and Pepper nearly went for your heads.”

Peter’s head shrunk to his shoulders. He remembered the small incident in the lab that shook a few levels. And she wasn’t talking about the chemical backfire. “Yeah, promise, we won’t… we won’t blow anything up,” he swore to her.

“Then go and have fun,” May said, and the two kids disappeared in a snap. No need to be told again.

May sighed, leaning against the counter as the rice crisped and crackled, signaling it was burning. “Fuck!” she spun and moved the pot off the stove.

The rice looked a bit dried. How long was it cooking without water? May dropped the pot back on the unlit stovetop. She only hoped the chicken marsala would cover up the dryness of the rice.

She looked about the room, spying the bare walls and plain furniture. Pepper once asked why she hadn’t redecorated to her liking, but May only responded with a simple shrug and a claim that she was too busy with Peter. It was an excuse. One that Pepper quietly accepted.

In truth, the reason she hadn’t redone the apartment was because it didn’t feel quite like home. Queens had been her home for over twenty years. It was where she got married, raised a child and lost her love. The little apartment was her home. Their life! And the apartment now, no matter how expensive or exquisite Stark was willing to pay, would not make it feel like home.

May sighed, picturing her old apartment with Peter draped over the couch with a physics book and Ben sitting in his chair, a smile on his face as he told Peter he looked taller.

She brushed her eyes, water shiny the tip of her fingers. With an unsteady breath, she regained her composure. She couldn’t break down. Not with all the chaos surrounding Peter. She needed to stay strong.

The doorbell rang again. Peter must have forgotten the code again. May double checked her face, not wanting her nephew to worry as she opened the door. “Peter, you really need to remember—oh. You’re not Peter.”

Definitely not Peter. While about the same height, Agent Everett Ross looked nothing like her nephew. He had an arm roped around a box, pressed tight against his hip as he shifted the weight from one foot to the next.

“Um, no,” Agent Ross answered. “Not Peter. Although I did seem him go down the hall a moment ago with Shuri. Did you need him?”

May shook her head. “Oh, uh, no. I just thought… never mind,” she said. “I’m sorry. Here. Come in.”

She opened the door wider for Agent Ross to freely enter. He thanked her and moved further into the apartment. He too sniffed the air. “Indian?”

“Yes!” May said, excited someone recognized the smell. Must mean she was doing it right. “You like Indian?”

Agent Ross nodded. “Yeah. I like spicy foods.”

That gave May an idea. “Have you had dinner yet?”

Agent Ross shook his head. “Um, no. Been a bit busy, but I figured I could get something on my way back into the city.”

“No, don’t do that,” May batted the suggestion away. “Here. Join me. Peter is off with Shuri and I have no doubt he won’t come back until late tonight. You can have his portion.”

May already gathered two of everything. Plates, cups, silverware and napkins. She returned to their small, square table that she usually occupied with Peter. She quickly set the table and hurried back to the stovetop.

“Make yourself comfortable,” May insisted. “Set the box down on the coffee table if you like.”

Agent Ross did just that. “Do you need help or…”

May shook her head. “No, I got it.” She transferred the food from the sticky pans to platters and bowls. Once the contents were dumped onto a new pottery, she carried them over the table. “Do you like wine? Or would you like water? I don’t know the alcohol rules of the CIA.”

“I’ll take a glass of wine,” Agent Ross said with a faint smile. “I clocked out.”

May returned with two glasses and poured. “Well, this was my first attempt at making an Indian dish. Peter didn’t look too thrilled at the concept, but I think it looks like chicken marsala. Don’t you think?”

Agent Ross was examining the chicken with a raised fork. “Oh, yes! Looks like what they serve in a restaurant.”

That boost May’s confidence in the dish. She prayed that the marsala moistened the rice though. They both took their forks and speared some chicken. May took a bite of her chicken, the sauce tingling on her tongue. Not in a good way. Her taste buds swelled and retaliated to a point she grabbed her napkin and spat out the chicken.

“Oh God!” she hacked. “That was awful.”

She looked across the table to see Agent Ross swallow his bite, but with great difficulty to keep it from coming up. “It, um, wasn’t bad. A bit… spicier than normal,” he said, taking a long draught of his wine that he actually finished it all. “It’s good.”

May shook her head, embarrassed. “You see, this is why Peter keeps telling me to stick to the basics,” she commented now that she knew the marsala was inedible for the average human. “Good at sandwiches and soups and pasta. That’s it.”

“Those are all good too.”

Being nice again. Like Ben was to her when she attempted to go off the reservoir when she cooked. In fact, Agent Ross tried to take another bite, but May spared him from doing any permanent damage.

“No, no,” she pulled his plate away. “Don’t do that. Don’t eat it. It’s… it’ll burn your all your taste buds off if you take another bite.”

Agent Ross lowered his fork back on the plate. “If you insist,” he said. “You know. It was definitely chicken marsala. Just… hot.”

“Like eating flames.”

“Exactly.”

May laughed, good to feel a chuckle. “Sorry to spoil your dinner then,” she said. “Guess you’ll have to follow through with your original plan.”

“Ah, not to worry,” Agent Ross assured her. “I mostly just have coffee for dinner anyway.”

“That sounds… awful.”

Agent Ross shrugged. It was the way of his life, May supposed. “Sometimes, work keeps you away from the cafeteria,” he said to her. “I’m lucky enough to even get the coffee. Agent Carter usually brings it to me along with some kind of fruit or vegetable. I don’t know. She thinks I get too deep in a case at times.”

May took the plates and scraped the food into the trash. “Well, I could offer you one better than coffee,” she said, heading to the cabinets. She pulled out a box of Cheerios. “Cereal?”

Agent Ross agreed and she poured two bowls of Cheerios. She passed one to Agent Ross and the say at the table with their spoons, slurping up Cheerios as if they were young adults again, living in shared apartments and eating ramen every, single night. Those good, old days.

May glanced behind Agent Ross to the box on the coffee table. “So… what’s in the box?”

“Hmm?” Agent Ross said, chewing on the cereal.

“The box,” May pointed to the box he brought with him. “What’s in the box?”

Everett wiped his mouth on the napkin. “Oh—that,” he said, taking a quick look at the sealed box. “That belongs to you and Peter.”

“It does?” She doesn’t remember lending Agent Ross anything she owned. Not that she owned very much in the apartment. Most belonged to Stark. She had little of her actual belongings with her. 

Agent Ross nodded. “Yeah, I started the process of returning your items back to you and Peter,” he explained. “Everything we took is being catalogued out to return to you. I only managed to get one box tonight and I thought that I could, uh, you know, stop by and give it to you.”

May abandoned her soggy cereal bowl. She approached the box, hesitating. "May I open it?"

“Sure. Again, it's yours.”

May cut through the sealed, clear tape. The flaps popped up and she smoothed them back from the opening to get a better view. Her hands went to her mouth to smother a small cry. Inside, was a framed picture of her, Ben and Peter at the age of thirteen. She freed it from the box, her fingers sliding down the silver frame. Three years. It was only three years ago that her little family sat in front of the camera, unaware that in a year, their whole world would be upturned.

She studied Ben's face. He and Peter shared similar features. Dark hair and dark eyes, the signs of a Parker. Richard was the same if memory served her correctly. He too held the Parker physic of dark features and broad shoulders. Peter, however, didn’t have the shape of his father or uncle. His skinny built came from his mother’s side.

Still, everyone they came in contact with believed Peter to be hers and Ben’s biological son. Peter looked strikingly like Ben that it wasn’t unreasonable for outsiders to believe they were father and son. Peter admired Ben greatly. They talked for hours about science and mechanics. Ben allowed Peter to tag along to his workplace, helping him design gadgets or projects for school.

Benjamin Parker. Warm, wise and young. So young. He was only forty-three when he died. Not as young as his brother, but still young enough to know there was more to life.

May opened the stand from behind and rested the frame on the side table. She smiled through her sadness. “Thank you,” she said to Agent Ross.

“You’re welcome,” he replied back and May heard the chair’s leg squeak on the floor. “Look, I won’t take up more of your night. I came by to drop the box off.”

May turned back to him. “Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t have to go,” she said to Agent Ross. “I-I’m just happy to have some of our things back. I don’t mean to cry on you.”

Agent Ross stood, uncertain what to say or do. For a CIA agent, he seemed quite lost in this particular moment. “It’s okay,” he finally said. “I understand. If you don’t mind me asking, how long has it been?”

May didn’t have to think. “Two years.”

“No, I meant,” Agent Ross floundered in his speech, “how long have you known him? Ben Parker?”

Oh. That was new. “Oh, um, since we were kids, I guess,” May thought back to her earlier years. “Ben used to work at this bakery near Coney Island. I bought bread and pastries from there for my family. He used to chat with me all the time. Asked me out too, but at the time I was seeing a guy named Jerome. Ben didn’t think he was good enough for me, but I thought it was because he was jealous.”

“Was he?” Agent Ross asked.

“Of course,” May said with a little laugh, remembering Ben’s face anytime she saw him with Jerome. “But, turns out he was right.”

“Why? What happened?” Agent Ross inquired, before remembering. “Well, if you want to tell me that is.”

May had no worries telling him. “Jerome was a thief. Got charged with robbery and a **ggravated robbery**.”

Agent Ross’s mouth sagged. “You dated a criminal?”

“I was young!” May defended her younger self. “I was, well, I thought I was in love. But… nope. Jerome wasn’t the guy I thought he was. Anyway, the next time I went to the bakery, I thought Ben was gonna comment on it. I was waiting for him to say something snarky or an ‘I-told-you-so’.

“But you know what?” May poised the question to Agent Ross.

Agent Ross shook his head. Not the kind of guy to make assumptions.

“He never did,” May revealed. “Didn’t say a word on the matter. Asked how I was doing. My family as well. Told me that it’s a beautiful day. All those nice pleasantries and not once did he mention Jerome.”

“That was kind of him.”

“That was Ben,” May commented, remembering Ben fondly in that silly navy apron with a coating of flour stained on the front. “Always so considerate of others. He was a good man. Hard-working, wise and kind. He never let anything bother him. Took things one step at a time. He always found a way to make things work out.

“His brother was much the same. Richard. Peter’s father,” May elucidated for Agent Ross. Not that he needed to know who Richard was. They all knew who Richard was. “Although, Richard was more of the nerdy kid than Ben. Ben played football and baseball. Richard only did track and a few academic clubs. Still, the Parker brothers were quite the duo. It broke Ben’s heart when Richard died.”

May remembered that awful night. Richard and Mary were late. They were to have arrived by ten to pick up Peter and take him home. They never came. No calls either. It got Ben nervous to the point he called the airlines. It was around one in the morning when someone knocked on the door. They didn’t use the doorbell, which May was thankful as it would have woken Peter up.

Two men were at the door with grave news. May never forgot the look on Ben’s face when he told of his brother’s death. Dominated by profound sadness, all the concerns and hopes he held onto shattered, leaving deep crevices that carved into his face. Thick tears rolled down his cheeks, hands shaking as he tried to listen to what the two men said. Once the cops were gone, Ben collapsed into May with unbearable pain. That was eleven years ago. Peter was barely five.

She hadn’t realized she went quiet. At least, not until Agent Ross gently placed a hand on her shoulder in a supportive manner. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he sympathized. “They sound like good people.”

They were. Ben, Richard and Mary—all dead before their time. “They were,” May agreed, trying to wipe away any traces of her grief. “I’m sorry for getting emotional.”

“Don’t be,” Agent Ross said. “You love them. It’s okay to miss them.”

May exhaled, thinking how right Agent Ross was. “Yeah, it seems I can’t even get a moment to not think of them,” she said. “With all this crazy media attention and Deadpool—”

Agent Ross dropped his hand. “I’m sorry about that. We shouldn’t have let him get away.”

“I don’t blame you,” May said to him. “Really. I don’t. He sounded like a maniac. Probably would have killed you if did go after him.” May returned to the opened box. “Anyway, I wasn’t thinking much about Deadpool. I was thinking more about Peter and his parents. How unfair it is for him to grow up without them. Like now, with all the press and pressures, does he ever think about his parents and what they would do for him? Of what would life be like if they never died?”

May shifted through the items in the box. A few coffee coasters, another picture frame of Peter at his tenth birthday party, and a couple of books that may have been left on the coffee table rather than the bookshelf were found among the treasured box.

“Anyway, that’s what I meant,” she continued to busy herself. “I keep questioning if I am doing the right thing for Peter. Would his parents approve? What would Ben do? All those sort of things. Ben used to know what to do or say to Peter. He and Peter had this… communication link. They understood one another without the need to talk. Not that I’m saying I’m not close to Peter. I am. I love that child. He’s my kid, but… I was never good at the science stuff or building machines. That was Ben’s forte. I simply taught him the social aspects of life. You know? I was there to help him fit in with his peers or help him sort out a personal problem.”

May realized she was babbling and her hands were shaking as she pulled each item out of the box. “Jesus—I don’t know why I am shaking,” she remarked. “I mean… Peter is okay, right? He’s not… I mean, sure he’s had it rough this past year, but he’s doing all right. Yeah?”

Agent Ross thoroughly nodded. “Yeah! Of course! You raised a great kid. He’s terrific. Smart and kind.”

May smiled at that. “And sometimes a bit naïve,” she joked, “but, yeah. He’s a good kid.”

She stopped shuffling the items in the box. Down at the bottom, she spotted a black Nikon N90s camera. Center-weighted and a durable metal chassis with a suite of lenses, the camera appeared intact and in good condition. May gently removed it from the pile of items and lifted it to her face to admire it. She hadn’t seen this camera in ages!

Agent Ross drew closer. “Um, yours?”

May shook her head. “No,” she said, pulling the strap up to reveal a scrawled name on masking tape.

Mary Fitzpatrick.

Agent Ross read the name. “Peter’s mother?”

May nodded. “Photography was a hobby of hers,” she said. “She had this camera around her neck a lot when we were out on family outings. She always wanted to capture a moment with Peter. She was actually a good photographer. She took our wedding photos.”

May checked the camera and pressed the red button. The camera buzzed with excitement before the lenses moved to adjust itself. It still worked. After all this time in disuse, it came to life. That left a flutter in May’s chest.

“I wonder if there are any photos in the film?” she queried, looking for the film opening.

She found it and popped it open. Nope. No film. No pictures. The agency probably took them.

May closed it and gently placed the camera to the side. She looked through the box again, but the rest were all tidbits of the home-life like a random crayons box, her small Tiffany lamp, and an a few trinkets that decorated the bookcase. She used the returned items to bring life to the living room. She put up the second frame on the shelf, along with the books and small trinkets. She switched the plain lamp with the Tiffany lamp, sharing the space with the family photograph. The coasters were set on the coffee table beside the box. And the crayons… were tossed back into the box.

May surveyed the room. A little better. More… home.

Agent Ross took a quick scan of the room. “Looks good,” he commented. “Look even better once I bring you more of your things.”

May smiled at that. “Thanks,” she said again. “For everything.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“I know, but I mean it,” May said again. “You’ve been so nice and you risked your career for Peter. We owe you a lot, Agent Ross.”

“Everett, please. And you don’t owe me anything,” Everett maintained. “It was the right thing to do. I may be a suit man, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have principles.”

“Well, then, the world could use a few more people like you.”

A corner of Everett’s lip twitched up. “Thanks.”

May looked back to the table. “Want another refill?” she offered.

Everett checked back at his empty wine glass that he drank in full after one bite of the chicken marsala. “Oh, err… sure.”

They talked for hours, sharing their childhood stories, funny antidotes and May boasted about Peter’s achievements like when he learned to walk at the eight months (“He just got up and walked,” May retold the tale. “Mary and Richard were in such a state of shock.”). Everett spoke about his journey on becoming an agent and his reasons why he wanted to become an agent. It was the same reason why Ben joined the military when he was younger, before being honorably discharged to help care for Peter.

It got late and although Everett believed he could drive, he didn’t think it would be best after three glasses of wine. He planned to call for a ride, but May said it would be too much of hassle for him to come back for his car. She suggested he stay the night on the couch and leave in the morning with his vehicle. Everett didn’t want to impose, but May assured him it was fine.

She gathered blankets and a pillow for him. She offered him some of Peter’s night clothes. Luckily, Everett didn’t mind sleeping in a Star Wars shirt and running shorts. May wished him a goodnight and picked up the box with the discarded crayons and Mary’s camera. She carried it into her room, putting it in the closet as she got ready for bed.

She was sitting up in her bed, reading a mystery novel when she heard a light tap at her door. May pushed her big glasses up the bridge of her nose. Thinking it was Everett, she went and grabbed her robe. “Come in,” she answered.

It wasn’t Everett. It was Peter.

“Hey, um, Aunt May,” Peter said, awkward in his stance in the middle of the doorway. “Do you know that Agent Ross is asleep on our couch?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to only befuddled the boy. “Oh, um… okay,” Peter said after a moment. “Just making sure. Did he come by for something?”

“He came by to drop a few things off,” she said to her nephew. “Got to talking and shared some wine. Anyway, neither of us thought it was a good idea for him to go back out driving after consuming some alcohol, so I convinced him to crash on the couch.”

“Oh… okay.”

May chuckled, but switched topics to not discomfort Peter any further. “How was your thing with Shuri? No destruction this time?”

Peter shook his head. “Um, no, nothing like that,” he said with a smile of his own. “Worked on a side project of hers. But, she had to go to bed because of the early departure tomorrow morning.”

May nodded, remembering that T’Challa and the rest of the Wakanda delegation were leaving America tomorrow. With the summit over, there was no need for them to stay until they were needed again. “You’re going to miss her, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed with a nod. “It was nice having someone my age around the place. Guess it’s back to being just me.”

May did find it unfair for Peter to live in a compound as the only child (not including Maria Stark). He had no one his age to hang-out with and whenever he went outside the compound, the press hounded him relentlessly. No peace or time to be a kid out in the world.

“What if I talk to Stark?” May suggested. “Convince him to allow you to have friends over like Ned and MJ?”

Peter slumped against the threshold of the door. “I doubt he’ll do it,” he said. “He’s been rather…”

“Protective?” May guessed correctly. “Yeah, I know, but I’ll have a talk with him. Don’t worry about it.”

Peter lifted his head, a pleased grin coming over him. “Thanks, Aunt May.”

“No problem,” she said, but then remembered the moment Peter turned to leave. “Wait… I have something for you.”

She hurried to her closet, looking for the box again. She found it and brought it over to the bed. Peter approached with a quizzical expression. “What’s in there?” he asked.

“Well,” May began, “as I said, Everett came by to drop off some of our belongings for us. Like those frames outside and the lamp. But, he also brought back something I think might be of interest for you.”

Carefully, May lifted the camera out of the box and held it out to Peter. Her nephew scrunched his face as he evaluated the object in May’s hands.

“A camera?” Peter said, still confused by the meaning of it.

“It belonged to your mother,” May responded, turning the strap over. “See? Right there.”

Peter saw the masking tape with his mother’s name scribbled on it. And like that, his eyes widened and he reached for the camera, plucking it right out of May’s hands. He held the camera delicately, examining every angle of it with a profound interest.

May watched. “Your mother loved photography,” she told him. “A little hobby of hers. Figured you may want it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll like it better than watching television.”

Peter looked up from the camera with a humored annoyance that made May ruffle his thick hair. He leaned away, hair sticking up in all directions. “Thank you, Aunt May,” he said, his voice softer than it was before. “I love it.”

“Don’t thank me,” May corrected him. “Thank Everett. He brought it back. His department is in the process of returning our belongings to us. So, expect more things to come our way.”

That brought a happy smile to Peter’s face, beaming from ear to ear. “I will when I see him in the morning,” he said, “but thank you anyway. You’re the best.”

May lowered her eyes, thinking about Richard, Mary and Ben. “I try,” was all she said. “You better hop to bed, mister. You also got an early day tomorrow.”

Peter wished her a goodnight and took the camera with him as he went to his bedroom for the night. May closed her door and returned to her bed. She picked up her book to read again, but found little interest in it at the moment. Her mind too focused on Peter and the look on his face when she told him the camera belonged to Mary. She thought of Richard and Mary. The horribleness of them being ripped away from their only son and Peter, who had little to no memory of them. It was incredibly unjust.

Sleepiness overcame her and she settled into her bed for the night. Book aside and light off, she rested her eyes, dreaming of her family.

* * *

 

*roughly translated to “You may be the White Lion, but I am still a princess.”


	14. Norman Osborn

Norman Osborn cancelled all of his meetings and booked the next flight out of California back to New York. He never believed the Accords Summit would turn up anything other than bickering among the heroes and politicians. It was a chilling shock to discover they all came to an agreement with a draft that was still up for debate.

Norman ordered a copy of the draft for his plane ride and spent the whole trip reading and agonizing over the legislative document. Particularly the one regarding Peter Parker.

He saw the news of Peter’s arrival at the UN. He watched the boy shyly stray away from the public and cameras, taking the back entrance to avoid any notice. Then, Norman replayed the famed rescue of the girl from the harbor. Peter’s gigantic leap into the air to free themselves of the cold waters was impressive. Commendable, but a waste nonetheless.

And that was what killed Norman the most. His creation being used like a puppet for Stark and the other Avengers for good press. Performing simple tricks to please and entertain the idiotic public wasn’t the purpose of his creation. If Norman got to him first, he would have ensured Peter reached his full potential. Become more than a simple poster boy for the Avengers.

There was still a chance, of course. While Peter mostly spent his days within the impenetrable Avengers Compound, the boy occasionally made brief appearances to the public, such as when he was spotted at a local diner with Stark and Rogers. Or when he showed up at his former school to see his friends. That was key, Norman decided. His friends. It may be impossible to approach him when Stark, Rogers or whatever Avenger plays bodyguard to him, but Peter Parker was vulnerable when he was with his friends. It showed by the lack of security when he appeared at Midtown and again when he saved the child from the river. Norman only needed to wait for the prime opportunity to snatch his boy.

He arrived at his penthouse, quiet and undisturbed. The butler was there, taking his coat to hang it up and then promptly bring him a plate of whatever was edible in the kitchen. Norman hardly ate what the butler brought to him. He only drank his scotch. Neat. As always.

He went to his office. Security on high alert, but upon his arrival, it dismantled. He went to his seat and placed his hand underneath the desk on a scanner. Hand scanned, the bottom drawer unlocked and Norman pulled it open to take out a massive folder and a chrome laptop.

He filed the copies of the Accords draft into the folder and turned on the laptop. He inputted the passcode and logged onto a file labeled: OZ.

The file contained all of Norman’s research, experiments and data on his prized formula. The formula that was going to be his springboard to make Stark obsolete and the Avengers unnecessary. With the formula, the whole United States Army could become super soldiers like Captain America. No need to deal with the pettiness of the Avengers if the US military force had the same strength and endurance those enhanced heroes controlled. Even Thaddeus Ross grew interested in his formula and joined forces with him in finding a replacement for the Avengers. But, time after time, none of the experiments proved to be successful. They all came to a dwindling disaster. All, but one.

Norman clicked on another file, pulling up a video recording. He hit play.

_“New York. Queens. It’s a rough borough, but hey—it’s home”_

Norman watched the homemade video of Peter Parker using his abilities, interacting with the other Avengers and being his geeky self as he excitingly told the camera all that occurred around him. The film came to an end with Parker seated beside Stark. The billionaire buffoon made a sexist joke about Peter’s aunt before gifting Peter with his new suit.

Norman sneered at the clip of Stark. Norman’s green eyes turned livid upon spotting Stark’s hand on his creation as if he made the boy. As if the boy was a product of his own ingenious idea.

It was good fortunate that his hatred of Tony Stark was shared with Secretary Thaddeus Ross. The former general despised Stark’s flippant attitude and desired to remove Stark from the Sokovia Accords committee. Norman used that to his advantage. It only took one meeting and Secretary Ross agreed to the partnership.

As partners, Ross had no qualm in sharing with Norman all that he gathered from the Parker residence, which included videos, photographs and even child drawings they found during the purge of the apartment. Ross handed Norman whatever he wanted, after all, it was Norman who assisted Ross financially in his hunt for the boy. And while Ross dealt with the nasty fallout of his too ambitious attack on Midtown, Norman used those confiscated recordings and pictures to study Peter.

Norman shut off the old recording and played another one. Peter looked to be about eight in the new footage. He stood beside what appeared to be a launcher. In his hand was a cheap, imitation of a model rocket. Peter looked proud of it as his uncle, kneeling beside the launcher, asked what Peter planned to do that day. Apparently, the boy designed his first rocket and launcher out of scrap metal and junk parts he found around the neighborhood. The boy spoke too fast for Norman to understand everything, but that didn’t bother Norman. He watched it enough times to know what the kid was saying to the camera.

Norman watched every home-video of his creation, starting when Peter was a toddler to an awkward, yet powerful fifteen year old. He met side-characters like his aunt and uncle, his friend Ned and of course, the traitorous parents.

Richard and Mary Parker.

Norman’s grip squeezed tighter on his glass. A reaction he got anytime he remembered Richard Parker. The young scientist who swore to be loyal to the company and help make lives better for the people, only for Richard to sabotage his own research and report him—Norman Osborn!—to SHIELD. The betrayal was a deep cut and Norman ensured Richard would burn for that treachery.

It was humorous in a way that, despite Richard’s best attempts to destroy Norman’s career, he ended up guaranteeing that Norman Osborn would forever live in the world of innovation and science. Richard’s only child became Norman’s greatest creation… his true legacy.

Norman smiled as he watched Peter develop a knack for engineering and science. Building his own designs and understanding theoretical chemistry and quantum mechanics, Norman wistfully wished that Peter Parker was his actual blood-born son. Harry had no interest in such subjects at that age. Or now, for that matter. He barely even put himself together for the day.

_Boom! Boom! Bam! Boom!_

Speaking of which…

Norman groaned. His son was clearly home and living the place up like he owned the whole damn building! The loud music drowned out the voices in the recordings and drilled a migraine right through his skull. Teeth grinding, Norman shoved his chair back and stormed out of his office, following the blaring metal music his son ghastly enjoyed.

He got to his son’s door. The music rattling the doorknobs and making the lights flicker upon each, heavy beat. Fingers latched on the doorknob, twisting it in a single jerk.

He spotted his son. Harry was draped over a chair’s arms, bobbing and talking.

It only angered Norman more. “ _Turn that bloody music off_!”

Harry jumped. He jolted out of his seat, scrambling backwards as he widened eyes back. His mouth babbled, words jumbling into an incohesive nonsense. Not once did he move to turn off the music.

So, Norman did it for him. Like he always did. Because Harry couldn’t do anything by himself without his guided hand. Norman slammed the music off and the last chord rang down the hallway to silence. He turned to face his weak-willed son. Harry stayed rooted where he landed from his jump off the chair, swallowing with difficulty as he tried to find something to say to him.

“D-Dad… what are you doing here?”

Norman went to say a retort when he realized his son was not alone. Three other kids were in the room with his son. A butterball of a boy stood by Harry’s telescope, clutching the focuser as his triple chins wobbled in his attempt to swallow whatever junk food he guzzled. The next kid had a set of unruly curls, almost doubled the size of her skinny twig of a body. An austere girl, her eyebrows lowered as she picked him apart in judgment. Her thin lips were in a permanent frown, warning Norman that she was not a docile lady.

When he looked to the third stranger, his heart seized him. For the second time in his life, his mind went completely blank. Standing a mere yard away from him was…

Peter Parker. His greatest creation.

So enthralled by the unpredictability, Norman was caught off guard when Harry spoke up again. “Um, Dad, I-I didn’t know you would be home. I thought you were in California for the week.”

Norman remembered where he was. He refocused and gathered up his composure. He looked back to Harry. “I came home early,” he said, turning down the hostility to a more cordial tune. “And what did I tell you about the music? Don’t play it that loud. I don’t want any calls from our neighbors.”

Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Er… yeah. Sorry… I, erm, forgot.”

Or he didn’t care. That was probably the more accurate answer. “I see,” he remarked. “Who are your guests?”

It appeared Harry forgotten that he had three teenagers with him. “Oh, um, they are… my, um—friends. My friends,” his son struggled to spit out as he pointed to McDonald’s Jr. first. “This is Ned. That’s Michelle and Peter—”

“Parker,” Norman finished, looking over at Peter who moved to stand next to the girl. “Yes, I thought you looked familiar.”

“It’s, um, nice to meet you sir,” Peter said, shaking Norman’s hand. “And, we’re sorry about the music being too loud. We didn’t realize anyone else was home.”

The boy was polite. Soft-spoken, but polite in his manners. And his grip was strong when Norman shook his hand. Strong, but not too tight to break his bones.

Norman dismissed Peter’s apology with a simple flick of his hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “My only concern were that the neighbors might complain. They have done so in the past.”

He looked to his son, who abashedly lowered his gaze. “Err… yeah, so, um, they were about to head out anyway, right guys?” Harry said, looking pointedly at his friends. “So—they’re just going to—”

Norman panicked. Peter couldn’t leave yet. He needed more time with the boy. He thought quickly.

“Oh, no, stay,” Norman insisted, stopping them from inching any closer to the door. “Hang-out. Got plenty of space to do so. Have you had dinner yet? No? I’ll have the cook make us dinner. Steak sound good?”

“I’m vegetarian,” Michelle responded.

Of course the hippie girl would be. “Then I’ll have the cook throw in some vegetables for you,” he told her as her face pinched in a scowl. “You guys stay. Do whatever it was you were doing before I came in. Just don’t play the music so loud.”

Norman left his son’s room, hurrying down the hallway to plan his next step.

* * *

Family dinners were uncommon in the Osborn household. Norman often ate at Oscorp or a restaurant, while Harry ate… whatever it was he ate. He didn’t know. Nonetheless, the cook created a magnificent spread before them in the dining room. Norman sat appropriately at the head of the table with Harry and Michelle on one side and Ned and Peter on the other. Peter sat at Norman’s right.

“So, you guys attend the same school as my son?” Norman started the dinner off with an easy question, directing the question more to the girl and fat boy.

“Yeah, we’re in the same grade level,” Ned replied, “and we are all on the decathlon team as well,”

“Decathlon team, eh?” Norman mused, remembering it as a geek club in his school days. “Must be smart kids.”

“We try,” answered Michelle although, Norman had trouble deciphering it as sarcasm or not.

He turned his attention to Peter. The real guest of honor of the whole apartment. “What about you, Mr. Parker?” he asked, which brought Peter to freeze up a bit. “Do you still attend school too? I don’t remember reading if you do or don’t in the papers.”

Peter put down his fork. “Oh, um, no. I’m homeschooled.”

“Homeschooled? You must be lonely by yourself then.”

Peter pondered. The way he tipped his chin to the side reminded Norman of Richard—if only for a second. “Well, I mean, it’s done online and I usually finish everything in an hour,” Peter concluded. “So… it’s not too bad.”

Norman paused, almost thinking his misheard him. “You finish school in an hour?”

Peter self-consciously shrugged. “I’m a fast learner. Mr. Stark is thinking about hiring an old professor of his from MIT to come tutor me, but for now, I’m just finishing up the online courses.”

Impressive, Norman thought as he took a sip of water. “Well, now I must ask what you do with the rest of your day?” he questioned, cutting a piece of steak. “You must be bored waiting for your friends to be done with school.”

“I stay busy,” Peter claimed. “Mr. Stark and I work on projects that can take hours, so it’s not bad at all.”

Norman swallowed his piece of steak too quickly that it pressed dangerously close to the sides of his throat. “Oh? And, what projects would that be?” he croaked a bit. “That is, if you can tell me. I know how fickle Anthony can be in sharing his project with anyone, but himself. Must mean you’re an intelligent kid if he allows you to work with him.”

He saw the flicker of conflictions in the boy’s eyes, questioning whether he should say anything to Norman. After all, Norman was aware that “Mr. Stark” wouldn’t be too thrilled to find out that Peter was even talking to him at all.

By the look on Peter’s face, it seemed the boy came to that exact conclusion. “I just work a bit on the robotics. Some minor tinkering and things like that.”

“You like robots?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“Mechanical driven, eh?” Norman commented. “I graduated college with an electrical engineering degree, myself.”

“Yes, I read that research paper you did on nanotechnology,” Peter said, “It was brilliant.”

Norman stared, dumbstruck. The boy read his research. And he understood it too. “That was years ago,” he said. “You must have been… what? Twelve?”

“Thirteen.”

Norman shouldn’t have been stunned. He already knew Peter Parker was a genius. But, for him to understand his thesis on nanotechnology at that young of age… that was quite a feat. “Have you used nanotechnology before?”

“No, not yet,” Peter admitted, glancing away for a bit. “I work with other sources.”

Norman nodded along to Peter’s words. “Well, if you want to work on nanotechnology, I’ll be happy to have you job shadow me around at Oscorp. We have a whole division that—”

“Dad—” came Harry annoyed whine, “Let’s not talk shop, okay? Peter doesn’t want to talk about that.”

Norman slowly rotated to his son. “Harry,” he said, voice low, but strong like cold steel. “It’s impolite to interrupt. Mr. Parker and I were having a small chat about similar interests. Just because you find it boring, doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

“Yeah, well, can’t we talk about something we can all talk about?” Harry returned, somehow regaining the confidence he sorely lacked earlier. His son whipped his head to the girl. “Michelle—didn’t you say something about your brother playing for a team? What team was it again?”

Michelle looked up from her pile of grilled vegetables. “Oh, um, yeah. He plays basketball for Purdue University.”

“Cool! I was never great at sports, but I always enjoyed watching the games,” Harry blabbered on, turning the attention onto him. “Ned? You like basketball?”

The hefty boy was chewing on a piece of steak. “Er, yeah. I like basketball. Can’t play it well though.”

“You, Peter?”

Peter nodded, shifting his seat uncomfortably at the sudden change of topic. “Yeah, I enjoy it. I play a few games at the compound with Cap and Sam.”

Norman wasn’t aware of who ‘Sam’ was, but Captain America he knew well enough to feel a flush of jealousy at the hero for providing that paternal gesture of a pick-up game. Then, the idea dawned on Norman.

“If you all like basketball, I could procure a few tickets for this weekend’s game?” Norman offered. “Are you all Knicks fans?”

As expected, the teenagers sat straighter in their seats. The prospect of seeing a professional team wired their bodies with a wild hope as their grins broke their face. “I love the Knicks!” declared that fat friend.

“Then it’s settled,” Norman said, looking to Peter who looked surprised by the gesture. “I’ll grab tickets for the game this coming weekend.”

Harry smashed his face into his hand, but didn’t say a word. Michelle and Peter thanked him for the kind gesture, but assured him it wasn’t necessary. Yet, Norman insisted. “Anything for friends of Harry,” he said, looking over at his slumped son. “He hardly ever brings friends home.”

They continued on with dinner, making polite conversations. Norman listened closely to anytime Peter spoke, but after the failed robotics conversation, the boy hardly said another word. Ned spoke a lot, his words jumbling all over the place, while Michelle kept a strict policy of only three word responses at best. Harry tried very little in engaging. He sat quietly, frowning severely throughout the rest of dinner.

By the time dessert came, a phone went off. It sounded more like someone left a radio playing for the sounds of AC/DC echoed around them rather than a shrilled ring.

Peter suddenly blushed, apologizing as he took his phone out of his pocket to read a glowing message on his screen. “Sorry, it looks like I have to go. My aunt needs me to come home now,” he said, closing his phone and rising from his chair. “So, um, it was an honor to meet you, Mr. Osborn.”

“Likewise, Mr. Parker,” Norman stood up to shake the young man’s hand again. “Don’t be a stranger around here and if you ever want to check out our nanotechnology program at Oscorp, let me know. I’ll be happy to arrange a visit for you.”

“Oh, okay, thank you,” Peter said, drawing his hand back after shaking his hand. “I’ll let you know.”

Then the girl stood up from her seat as well. “Peter’s right. We better get going. It’s getting late,” she said, encouraging the fat boy to forget dessert. “Can we hitch a ride with you, Peter?”

Peter agreed to give them a ride back to their homes. They all bundled themselves up in their fall coats and scarves, saying their good-byes to Harry with promises to see him at school. Peter was the last one to leave, giving a quick fist-bump to Harry before he turned right back to Norman.

“Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful,” Peter said with gratitude. “Have a good night.”

Like that, all of Harry’s friends were gone, leaving only the father and son alone in the vast penthouse. And Harry took that moment to spin on his heels and face his father with heated delirium.

“Try not to look so depressed, Dad,” Harry sneered.

Norman rolled his eyes. “What are you blabbering on about?”

“How you practically drooled over Peter Parker throughout dinner,” Harry said with a sour countenance to match his tone. “He hardly says a word and you already treat him far better than me.”

“Perhaps it is because he is a motivated and polite, young man,” Norman threw back at his son. “Not the spoiled slob I apparently raised.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “You didn’t,” he retorted. “That is, you didn’t raise me. Too busy with your goddam company to care about me!”

“Watch that tone!”

“Or what?” Harry challenged, before turning away from his father. “God—you embarrassed me in front of my friends!”

“Embarrassed?” Norman repeated, crossed. “I would think it was the other way around. And besides, when did you become friends with Peter Parker?”

Harry wildly threw up his hands. “Again—with Parker! What does it matter? I’m friends with him,” he said with an embittered tone. “Him and the others, who, by the way, their names are Michelle and Ned. In case you didn’t remember since you were so busy goggling at Parker.”

“I remember their names.”

“But didn’t bother to talk to them,” Harry said. “Yeah, I notice and I’m sure Michelle noticed because she notices everything.”

Norman didn’t care if the girl noticed or not. She wasn’t important to his plans at all. Neither was the chubby friend.

“And what is with inviting Peter to come to Oscorp?” Harry inquired further. “You never let anyone come over for a visit. You don’t even let _me_ visit Oscorp!”

“I thought that was perfectly clear,” Norman said. “Peter is interested in nanotechnology. He is interested in sciences and engineering. You aren’t. Why would you want to come to Oscorp?”

Harry stared dead straight at him, mouth slightly parted. “Really?” he said, brows raised before he low whistled. “Wow! That’s just great… well, you know what? I doubt Peter will come anyway. Why would he want to go to Oscorp when he can hang-out with Stark and his nanotechnology, A.Is and robotics team? Stark’s company is far more advanced than Oscorp anyway.”

Norman’s face mottled crimson. He felt his eyes pop out as he glared daggers at his son. “Says a boy who’s barely passing school as it is. You’re only upset because you know that you will never be as great as he is now,” he jeered. “You, Harry, are a disappointment.”

His words struck a chord with Harry. His son’s anger evaporated, replaced with a stung rejection. He slide his feet back, muscles slacked as he turned away from his father. It took a moment for Harry to boarder up the rejection and act unoffended. “Whatever,” he scoffed, no longer interested in the ridiculous argument. “I’m going to my room.”

“Don’t be playing any of that crap you call music!” Norman called behind him to which he heard Harry growl before he charged onward without a single glance back at his father.

Norman watched Harry storm off. He meant every word that he said. If Harry was half the man Peter Parker was, then he would be proud enough to call Harry his son. But at the moment, Harry’s lazy, incompetent and immature manners did little to make him be a proud father. Whereas Peter, intelligent, polite and enhanced, was the future for Norman and his legacy.

To ensure that future remained secured, Norman returned to his office and pulled out the old burner phone he hadn’t used in years. He punched in the speed dial number. It rang twice.

“It’s me,” Norman said into the phone as he looked out the window that overlooked Central Park. “I need you to get to New York City as soon as possible. You won’t regret it.”


	15. Tony Stark II

A flash went off in his face.

Tony looked up from the Starkpad. He looked dead on at the eye of a camera lens. "Will you please stop it?" he gritted. "It's early in the morning. I don't need hard evidence of what I look like in the early mornings."

Peter lower his camera down. "Sorry," he said. "Want to capture some daily moments in the compound."

"Why? What are you trying to do?" Tony grumbled as he picked up his mug of coffee. "Sell them to the press? Become a paparazzi?"

Peter game him a wry grin. "If you can't beat them, join them, right?"

"Wrong," Tony answered after he took his drink. "You become better."

A gentle hiccup distracted Tony. He looked down in the crook of his occupied arm. Little Maria was asleep, her button nose twitching as her mouth rooted for anything. Her little legs kicked in jagged motion and tiny toes peeked from the blanket she was swaddled in. Hands, fingers fisted, flapped. A sign of possible three things: milk, diaper or some random discomfort that Tony would spend ages trying to ease.

Tony forgot his coffee, moving Maria into a better position. "Oh… what's a matter?" he murmured as his daughter's eyes peeped open before closing in a scrunch. "Hungry? Okay, let's try that."

He went over to the fridge, searching for the milk that Pepper pre-made in case of an emergency. And Tony considered it an emergency. He found the bottle and guided it to his daughter's mouth. Instantly, Maria's mouth snared on it and her little lips began to suck in as much as she could.

"There, there," Tony cooed as he wandered back to the table. "See—Daddy can take care of you."

"Did someone say you couldn't?" Peter asked, lining up for another photo.

"I said it—along with a few thousand others," Tony quipped before he snapped his finger at Peter. "And, what did I say about the camera, huh? No more."

"Come on," Peter argued. His camera still aimed for a picture. "I'm sure M&Ms here would like to have a baby picture with her father."

"So she could burn it later? Sure," Tony returned in wit. "And stop calling her that. She's not candy that you can eat."

"Not my fault that her initials spell that out."

Tony threw Peter a look. "Not my fault either if you were… say… accidentally erased and replaced with… oh, I don't know… Ben Dover sounds like a good name, right?"

Peter furrowed his brows, somewhat doubtful of the threat. "You wouldn't."

"No, but I'll have FRIDAY do it if you keep snapping pictures," Tony warned. "I'm not going to condone this type of behavior."

Peter surrendered the camera, leaving it hanging around his neck. "Fine."

"Don't you have like… homework or something?"

"Already did it," Peter answered, taking an apple from the bowl.

Tony would have questioned it, but Peter's a genius. The online program probably wouldn't be able to adapt to Peter's learning speed. "Okay… well, how about you and I work on your robot? After I switch duties with Pepper that is. I don't think she'll be happy if I brought Maria into the lab."

Peter nodded his agreement. "Yeah. It's best to not get Pepper angry."

Tony smirked at the kid. Oh, he remembered that night. Pepper was thrilled to get Maria to fall asleep. All those hours rocking her to sleep was ruined by a miniature explosion Peter and Shuri caused in the lab. The minor quake startled Maria out of her slumber to a full blast wail, and it caused Pepper to go full rampage. It scared the two kids enough to quit the lab work early that night.

"Yeah, so when Pepper wakes up," Tony said. "You and I will head down, okay?"

Peter happily nodded, perking up. "Yeah, okay," he said, but then fell into a short hesitation. "Actually, I was wondering... can we work with some nanites today?"

"Nanites, eh?" Tony said as moved back toward the table. He took a seat, Maria tucked in the crook of his arm. "Sure. I don't see why not. But, why the change? You think nano-tech is the way to go for your robot?"

"Uh, no... not for Dumbo. He's going to be solar powered," Peter asserted, still stubborn in regards to his craft. "No, I was, um, talking about nanotechnology the other night and I realized that I never actually, well, you know... worked with them before. Kind of want to see how it works."

Tony couldn't argue with that reasoning. He admired the kid's thirst for knowledge and wanted to encourage Peter's growth in that department. "Yeah, okay. I'll show you the Mark L armor," he said. "First armor that uses nano-tech."

Peter blinked. "Wait... I get to work on your armor? Like... your actual Iron Man armor?"

"Yep. Why not? Could use a fresh pair of eyes since my old science bro is still MIA."

Peter's face split into an elated grin. "Thank you, Mr. Stark! Thank you! Thank you!"

"Oh, okay—calm down, Underoos," Tony advised the kid. "You act like I never take you down to the lab. Ever."

Peter flushed in embarrassment. He settled back down in his seat, but still wore that silly smile. "Sorry... got excited."

"Yeah, fanboying much?" Tony teased the kid, reclining comfortably in the chair. "So... you and Ned talked about nanotechnology the other night? For what?"

The giddiness that manifested on Peter's face melted away. His eyes unceremoniously glanced around, avoiding Tony's suspicious gaze. He thought back, remembering if Happy said anything when he picked the kid up a couple of days ago from Manhattan. While odd that Happy had to pick them up from Manhattan, Tony had no recollection of any disputes or concerns from that night. Nothing from Happy at least, and the brief moment he saw of the kid, Peter looked fine.

Tony was going to regret asking. "You're clearly hiding something," he said to Peter. "Care to tell me what's going on or will I have to wait when it all blows up?"

"It's nothing," Peter claimed, still refusing eye contact. "Just talk."

"You're not in a fight with Ned, are you? Or MJ?"

"What? No!" Peter was offended by the mere question. "No—like I said, it's nothing. It just came up in a discussion we had over dinner."

"Then why the sudden discomfort?" Tony questioned, ducking his head down to catch Peter's eyes. "You can't even look me in the eye, kid."

Right then, Peter lifted his head and gazed directly at him. "I'm fine. Everything is fine."

Tony planned to pressure Peter into revealing what troubled him, but the sound of the elevator arriving distracted him. He quickly made a mental note to talk to Happy about the previous night before he engaged with whoever walked out of the elevator. The doors parted and good, old Captain Rogers and Same Wilson strolled into Tony's apartment.

Rogers spotted Tony with his daughter immediately, a little smile tugging in the corners as he drew closer. "How's the littlest Avenger doing?" he asked, coming over to take a look at Maria. "She looks bigger."

"Watch your mouth," Tony quipped, checking on Maria. Her bright orbs focused solely on him and not Rogers. "That's not what you tell a lady."

Rogers threw him an exasperated look. "You know what I mean," he said. "She looks healthier. Growing."

Sam Wilson, who had yet to see his daughter, took his time. His eyes studied Maria's face before switching to Tony's then back to hers. "I can definitely tell she's yours," he finally said. "At the same time, though, I can't believe it."

Tony huffed. "Well, believe it. She's my kid. And she's going to kick your ass."

"Language, Tony," Rogers groaned, tilting his head in Maria's direction. "Not in front of the little one."

"Oh, she won't remember it."

"Just a good habit to have when she is old enough to remember it."

Fair point, Tony thought as he looked back down at Maria's wide eyes. He wasn't ready for a back-talking child. "Whatever," he said, not wanting Rogers to win. "Look, is there something you need? Because I could have sworn you guys have a kitchen on your own floor. If everyone keeps coming up to this one, what's the point of the others?"

"Well, for starters, you stock this one with the best coffee," said Wilson.

"And the best food too," Peter added his two-cents from the table, finishing off his apple. "We only have Cheerios at my place. Well, used to anyway."

Tony rolled his eyes. "That's not my problem. That's your aunt's. Ask her for more food."

Peter shrugged and picked up an orange next, shedding the layers off in quick motions.

Tony turned back to Rogers and Wilson. "Okay, well, help yourself to some coffee and carry on," he said as he got up. He gently adjusted Maria in his arms as he moved around the table. "As you can see, my arms are full. Too busy to play host."

"We can see, but we didn't come up here just for the coffee," Rogers said, his voice shallow that Tony had to listen carefully. "We need to talk."

"Can it wait?" Tony asked, tired of the constant attention everyone needed from him. "Look—if it's about the Accords, we can talk about that later. The next summit will take place in a month. Plenty of time to discuss, bicker and punch it out later."

"Actually, it's not that at all."

"Then what is it?" Tony hated keeping the guessing game alive when it could be dead with a simple answer.

"It's in regards to our latest... recruiter."

Latest recruiter? Tony stared, dumbfounded by what he meant. He glanced to Peter, wondering if he meant the kid. Peter also looked up, surprised by the news. "Oh—is someone else joining the team? Is it Ant-Man?" Peter guessed. "Or… um, who is that guy… the one in Hell's Kitchen?"

"No," Rogers answered to Peter's guesses. "No, it's a guy we came across not too long ago. A bit of a loud mouth."

Tony's blood stilled. His fingers slipped, the bottle tipped. Maria lost her hold and whimpered, arms flailing in distraught. "Oh, sorry, squirt," he said, trying to put the bottle's teat to her mouth. But, Maria kept crying. "Shit—I mean, okay. Hold on… kid!"

Peter dropped his orange upon Tony's call. "Yeah?"

Tony slipped between Rogers and Sam, moving to Peter as the kid rose up from his chair. "Here, take her for a minute," Tony said, slipping his baby daughter into Peter's arms. He then passed the bottle to him. "Feed her until she stops and then burp her. Don't forget to put a rag on your shoulder when you burp her. I'm going to talk to Cap here for a moment."

Peter looked baffled by the sudden responsibility, but he didn't complain. He accepted Maria, swaying his arms and cooing at her to settle down before he tried to give her the bottle's teat.

"Hey… hey… I got you," Peter murmured, cuddling the baby to his chest. "Hey! Yeah… it's your big brother. Well, in a non-biological way. More like an honorary title, you know? Maybe not. You're like a few weeks old. You wouldn't know. But, I got you. Hey—hey… it's okay. Stop crying. I guess you don't understand—"

"Peter!" Tony snapped for Peter's attention. "Just rock and soothe. That'll stop her from crying. Not… babbling."

Peter rapidly nodded. "Right, right. Yeah. Sorry, I'll, um…"

He started to rock his arms, swaying his whole body to quiet Maria. As Tony left to another floor with Rogers and Wilson, Maria's cries soften and Peter's voice turned into a quiet song.

The three Avengers went down a few floors, to a more secured room so that Peter wouldn't overhear them. Tony tapped in the key code that granted them access to the room. Tony ushered them and sealed it shut behind them. Now, it was the three of them. Alone and undisturbed.

Tony crossed his arms. "All right, first—we need a better code word than recruiter in front of the kid," he said, jabbing his thumb to the sealed door. "I don't want him to go pestering me about it."

"How about Red, then?" Rogers suggested.

"Red?"

"He's dressed in all red," Rogers pointed out. "I can't think of another nickname."

Fair enough, Tony conceded to the nickname. Not great, but it would do for the moment. "Okay, fine," he said. "Now, what's the major problem? What happened?"

Rogers went into a quick debrief. After that crazy night meeting Deadpool, the team dug further into the history of Deadpool's background. They investigated the Parker's assassination, trying to find any connection to Deadpool or any other associated terrorist that might have blown it up. Their leads ended with nothing. No trail. No evidence. Nothing. Even Clint's angry call didn't help them. Granted, he didn't call to assist in their investigation. He called because he received another fruit basket from Deadpool that thanked him for the introduction to the Avengers.

In either case, nothing they found led them any closer to their murderer. Until now.

Rogers received an early call from Agent Ross about a possible suspect down in Brooklyn. Rogers and Wilson joined Agent Ross in the raid. Unnerved at not being invited, Tony let it slide as he listened to Rogers tell the story.

They raided some loft building in Flatbush and found the suspect. Only the man was dead. His body mangled into acute angles and, from what Rogers awkwardly described, "Looked like a sword went right up his bottom."

"Asshole, for a better term," Wilson chipped in.

Tony did not need more details. "Okay—so the guy's dead," he said. "I'm guessing… Deadpool did it."

"Based off the murder, I would assume so," Rogers replied. "But the murder isn't what we wanted to talk about. We found something in the loft that we believe is to be a link to this whole Deadpool debacle."

Tony arched his eyebrows in a comical manner. "Are you kidding? You're calling it a 'debacle'? It's a bit more than that."

"Anyway," Rogers continued, ignoring Tony's jab, "we found this near the body,"

He pulled out a clear plastic bag from his pocket. He held it up to Tony's face. Tony tipped his head back, squinting at the object inside the evidence bag. It was a business card. For a school. Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls.

"Um, okay," Tony said, wrangling a questionable look to Rogers and Wilson. "How is a school for spirited, anti-establishment women a link into this whole  _debacle_?"

"Funny you say that, because actually it's not a school," Wilson responded. "It's a local watering hole down in the Lower East Side."

"Not surprising," Tony remarked. "How else would a teenager survive that hellish hole?"

"Not funny, Stark," Rogers reprimanded.

"It's a little humorous," Tony maintained. "Okay, so… what? You think this Deadpool is killing the local patrons at this bar?"

"It's a lead, Stark. Agent Ross says we should check it out, considering that the dead man had the card."

"So? I have seven different punch cards in my wallet right now. Doesn't mean Joe's Coffee has anything to do with my death if I so happen to die," Tony remarked. "Why does Big E think it is something to look into? Why not have the regular police handle it?"

Rogers and Wilson shared a look. "Because… they found all of this as well," Rogers said, taking out his phone and turning it around to give to Tony.

Tony checked out what was on the phone. A gallery with pictures of the murder scene. Tony winced at the images he swiped through. The man didn't die cleanly or respectfully at all. But then, Tony saw what Roger was referring to. A backroom filled with weapons ranging from guns, grenades and bombs. Not something an average Joe kept to protect his property or loved ones.

Tony returned the phone back to Rogers. "Okay… so, gun enthusiast killed by a sword. Ironic," he said, pacing a bit. "Do we have a name of the dead fellow?"

"Not yet," Wilson answered. "But, based on what he kept locked behind those doors, I'm gonna say he isn't a very nice guy."

"Probably a mercenary himself," Rogers added, "which is why Agent Ross thinks we should check out the bar. Might find something useful. Who knows? Someone might even know Deadpool."

Tony doubted. Deadpool wasn't a man to have a lot of followers nor acquaintances based on his instability. If he killed this man, then it was possible that more answers may be found at the bar. And with answers, the quicker they could stop Norman Osborn.

"All right! Fine—whatever," Tony said. "If Big E wants us to check it out, then we will. What time were you thinking because I was thinking eleven? Wait—is Big E coming, because if he is, we have to do eight. He gets cranky if he doesn't go to bed early."

Rogers shot him another exasperate look. "Come on, Tony. Stop giving him a hard time. He's doing his job," he said. "But, if you must know, he can't make it. Busy with processing the Parker's belongings to return to them. So, it's just going to be us."

"Great," Tony deadpanned. "Eleven it is then. Let me just go and tell Pepper before she believes she has a chance to have an early night's rest."

* * *

Tony looked up at the sign, reading it over again. Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls. Odd name for a bar. But, maybe the name's purpose was to keep certain clientele out of its hovel. In any case, Tony was going to enter, order a beer and then demand answers. Rogers and company may do as they please. He didn't give a damn.

They entered the stairwell. Tony checked that his Iron gauntlet was situated perfectly in case he needed to go into interrogation mode. He looked over his shoulder to Cap and Wilson. "All right boys," he said to them. They were both dressed in their identical leather jackets that was almost reminiscent of a 90s boy band. "Try to blend in."

"Could say the same thing to you," Wilson threw back as they descended into the bar, gesturing to the fine suit Tony wore.

Tony shrugged, not overly concern if he fit in the atmosphere or not. As he expected, they came across a rough, wooden door that threatened to splinter his fingers at a single touch. The hinges squeaked at the disturbance, but their warning was silenced by a wall of rambunctious drunks. Conversations swirled among the dimly lit room, a hue of blueish-green coating the entire atmosphere. A pool table sat in the middle of dirtied tables and unstable chairs. A stagnant stench of cigarettes, mixed with another mephitic odor, wafted about the room that Tony believed he would need to burn his suit along with the first layer of skin to get the smell off him.

No one noticed them at first. Too busy dealing with one another to take notice who entered their domain. Most of the patrons were not the type to been seen mingling with Avengers. Gruff, buff and ugly with bald heads and long beards made them an unappealing company to surround oneself. They looked more like biker gangs than drunks who lived off of welfare checks and workers' compensation.

Tony, Rogers and Wilson meandered to the bar, where the bartender, who now took notice of their presence stood at attention. His big, curly hair spiraled in a puffy mess at the sides, black-rimmed glasses pressed against his face as he wiped his hand on his yellow, plaid shirt. If anything, the bartender looked the least intimidating person in the vicinity.

He walked up to them, the rag in his hand thrown over his shoulder. "I'm just going to say it," he began. "You guys walked into the wrong bar. This isn't the place for you, so I suggest you walk out quietly like you came in."

Tony cocked an eyebrow. The bartender may not look buff, but he sure was a confident prick. "Yeah, no can do," he said, pulling out the business card from the murder scene. He flipped it up so the bartender would notice it. "You see, we found this on a guy we were investigating. He's dead by the way. Bones snapped in millions of pieces and had a sword shoved right up his ass."

The bartender didn't even blink. No reaction at all. Almost like it was plausible occurrence. "Who died?"

Tony took out his Starkphone and uploaded the image of the dead man. "This guy," he said and the bartender took a quick look. "No, go ahead. Take a good, long, hard look at it. That man's dead."

The bartender muttered under his breath. He turned away from Tony, looking over the whole bar. "All right! Big announcement!"

Everyone immediately went silent, looking up at the bartender with cautious concern.

"I've just been informed that Palmer is dead, so," the bartender pointed to man near the corner, "come and get your money, you shithead. Come on up, Griggs. Collect your fuckin' sixty-five."

Cheers and moans were shared as a man who had a round pot-belly plowed his way to the counter. His jolly attitude served him well as he reached the bar and snared the sixty-five dollars from the bartender's hand.

"Yeah, yeah, go congradu-fucking-lations," the bartender jibed as he jumped up on the bar with chalk in his hand. He crossed off a name on a massive chart above the rows of alcohol beverages.

Tony's mouth fell. "Son of a bitch."

The chalkboard was covered in a list of names and money amounts. Bets were accepted and written in chalk up on the board in finality. Some were already crossed off, others blurred to the point it almost looked erased. But, what came clear to Tony was the all caps letter of the chart's title: DEADPOOL.

The bartender dropped down and returned to Tony, Captain Rogers and Wilson. He wiped the chalk dust on his rag. "Like I said," he said. "This really isn't your scene."

Tony blinked from the chalkboard to the bartender. "It is now," he said, shooting up to his feet and releasing his gauntlet. It came to life, the blue light whirling and shining brighter than ever as he took careful aim at the bartender.

The clatter of noise instantly went silent again, followed by a sum of clicks that Tony recognized as guns.

Tony heard Wilson low whistle at the party behind him and Rogers muttering next to him, "Tony, don't do anything stupid…"

The entire time, the bartender didn't even flinch. "You're not going to get anything out of me and I doubt you can stop all of them in time from firing their weapons."

"Really? Have you never seen us fight? Like on TV?" Tony queried. He faced a far worst situation than the one he was currently in. Even Rogers took on a group of armed men in small quarters victorious. "This is nothing and if you really don't want to make a mess, I think it's best you answer some questions."

The bartender pulled his shoulders back, taking a full measure of Tony's Iron gauntlet into full consideration. "Doing nothing illegal here," he claimed. "Just a few alcoholics wanting a few nonjudgmental time to themselves."

"You're betting on who dies first," Wilson said, gesturing to the chalkboard. "That's illegal and perverted."

"Betting isn't illegal," the bartender said. "Just highly frowned upon."

"Still an immoral way to pass the time," Rogers remarked at the way they turned death into profit and enjoyment.

"Thanks for the lesson, padre. But, as you can see, this ain't a Catholic school anymore," the bartender gestured to the armed patrons and liquors. "Now—I'll ask you to leave nicely for the third time or else I'll have my good friends here show you our kind of hospitality."

Tony glanced over his shoulder. He sighed. "Very well," he said and turned to Captain Rogers and Wilson. "Close your ears and eyes."

"Tony? What are you—"

Tony spun on his heels and shot his Iron Gauntlet to the paying patrons. A blinding light, followed by a rasp shattered the room. Then a loud, collective thud ricocheted along the walls back to the bar. Tony dropped his arm, the gauntlet dimming in disuse.

The patron were no more. They laid haphazardly on the floor, too stupefied to move. Satisfied with the result, Tony turned to face the bartender again, who stood alone, pressed up against the rows of liquor.

Tony pulled out a stool and took a seat. "Now that we took care of that," he said, "why don't you pour us a round of drinks and we can get this conversation rolling."

The bartender bristled. "I don't have anything to say! I don't know anything!" he yelled at them. "You ruined my business! No one will come here now that the Avengers are involved."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have started a death wish list," Rogers remarked, taking his own seat beside Tony.

The bartender rolled his eyes. "It's called a Deadpool list, idiot," he retorted. "And it's been a tradition of this establishment for years. Even before I became the head bartender."

"Ah! You see," Tony clapped his hands. "Now, we are getting somewhere."

"Who is on this… deadpool list?" Wilson threw out a question, peering up on the board. "You bet on people who enter this bar or something?"

The bartender huffed, crossing his arms in protest.

Tony sighed, unbelievable that this man had the nerve to be a douche. "Look—we are trying to stop a psychopath from killing again," he said. "We don't give a damn about what you do down here. We only want to stop a very bad man from doing very bad things. Capiche?"

The bartender's eyebrows arched. "Oh, yeah, I know why you're here," he remarked. "And I'm telling you it's a fuckin' waste of time."

Wilson leaned into the bar. "You do?" he questioned the man's authenticity.

The bartender nodded. "Uh—yeah! You're chasing after the wrong guy," he asserted. "Deadpool didn't kill Spidey's parents. He didn't even exists back then."

That screeched the conversation to a halt. Tony stared, his bowels churning in distress. His intellectual brain scrambled to make sense what he heard. How did this cheap imitation of Curly Sue know that private, tidbit of information? Temporarily incapacitated, Tony struggled to voice his battering thoughts.

So, Wilson spoke for him. "How do you know about that?" he demanded.

The bartender shrugged.

That wasn't good enough. The paralysis wore off. Tony stood up from his stool. Two hands pressed on top of the bar. "All right, this is going to go two ways. You either willingly cooperate with us or," Tony waved his gauntlet in front of the bartender's face, "we try another alternative."

"Tony!" Rogers's voice admonished and a hand tugged on Tony's shoulder. "Tony—settled down! There's no need to go Iron Man on him."

"He's being a grade A douche," Tony retorted, scowling at the bartender. "That's enough for me."

"Tony—let me handle this," Rogers ordered, pushing Tony aside to stand in front of the bartender, who looked a tad paler.

Tony flipped Rogers the bird, but the good, old Captain was looking at the bartender and not Tony's crude gesture.

"Hello. I don't think we properly introduced ourselves," Rogers began and he stuck out his hand. "I'm Steve Rogers. This is Tony and Sam. You?"

The bartender didn't shake Rogers's hand. "They call me Weasel."

Tony pressed his lips tight, trying to damn the laughter erupting in his throat. Weasel? He's shitting them. What kind of a name was that? Tony only hoped that he lived up to that horrible name. 

Rogers apparently sensed his belly-ache laughter as he elbowed him in the ribs to contain himself. "You're friends with this Deadpool, aren't you?" Rogers continued as Tony recovered. "Don't need to answer that. I get it. You're trying to protect him. Look—as Stark said earlier, we only want to stop this bad guy from hurting someone we care about. You have to understand that, right? Peter is a child. We don't want him to get hurt and we're willing to follow any and all trails that will help us prevent anything bad from happening to him. Okay? If you can help us with that, then… we'll be out of your hair, so to speak."

"I told you everything I know already," Weasel smugly answered. "I have nothing else for you."

"Okay!" Tony interjected, elbowing his way back to his old seat. "Back to my original plan considering yours failed, Cap." Tony lit up his gauntlet to the bartender. "Okay, here is how it's going to go. You tell us everything that this Deadpool has and then I won't burn off all those gold curls from your head, Goldilocks."

"Tony!" Rogers spat. "That's not how—"

"Okay," Weasel said.

Tony, Rogers and Wilson stopped and stared. "Come again?" Tony asked, not believing that he heard the man's quick submission.

"Yeah, look, I don't have a great pain tolerance. I stubbed my toe just yesterday and I was out for the entire day. Had to get Patch to do my shift," Weasel admitted. "So… just… hold on to your dicks."

Weasel the bartender went to the other end of the bar. He pulled out a hefty binder, carrying it over to the group. He dropped it on top of the counter with a loud thud, flipping it open to reveal pages upon pages of records on an ongoing deadpool list.

"I don't want any problems for my friend," Weasel spoke again as he shuffled through the binder. "As I said, he didn't do anything to the kid's parents. Nor the kid. He wasn't around during that time. But here—" He spun the binder around to show them a list. It was marked 2007. "This is the list of all the people associated with the deadpool in 2007. The time of the plane crash."

Tony looked over the names, reading them quickly to remember them all. He saw A. Palmer's name penciled into the lined paper. The same man whose name was scratched off on the chalkboard. Tony glimpsed back up to the chalkboard, looking at their names and then back to the records.

A cold eureka moment imploded in his mind. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, looking back to Weasel. "These aren't random people."

"No, they are not," Weasel coolly answered.

Tony looked to Rogers and Wilson. Both remained clueless to the obvious evidence before them.

"They're all mercenaries," Tony explained, pointing to the chalkboard and the records. "Every single name is a mercenary. That's the deadpool list! To see which mercenary dies first on the job." Tony checked back with the bartender. "Am I right?"

"You're the genius," Weasel dryly stated.

Tony scowled at the man's lazy contribution. "Yeah, I am," he returned. "You see, Rogers? A little bit of persuasion goes a long way."

Rogers returned with a pointed look. "So does kindness and compassion," he rebutted as he poured over the 2007 list of names. "Do you know which type of mercenary each one was? I'm aware that not all mercenaries are associated with murder."

"I wasn't working in this joint in 2007, so I can't really say," Weasel answered, monotone. "All I know is that Deadpool asked for this very same list and I gave it to him."

"Without asking questions on what he might do?" Rogers followed up. "That's a bit careless."

Weasel shrugged. "He can take care of himself," was all that Weasel offered as an excuse, not realizing Rogers was referring to Deadpool as being the dangerous one. "And, honestly, if he's asking for the list of names, then those guys were probably motherfuckers that need to be handled."

"You sure have a great loyalty program here," mumbled Wilson. "So… one of these guys may have been involved with the little Spidey's parents' assassination?"

"Appears so," Rogers said in a long, drawn out sigh. "Stark? Do you need a copy?"

Tony already took care of it. "FRIDAY has it already," he muttered, fixing his jacket sleeves. "Let's go. I feel like I'm already getting hepatitis C just standing here." Tony reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a few hundred dollar bills. He smacked them on the table. "There you go. A round for when they come around and payment for any more drinks they buy afterwards."

"Oh, and one more thing," Tony pulled out a twenty dollar bill and laid it on top, "That one is for you."

Weasel grumbled and snatched the money away before Tony could even reconsider taking it all back. "Asshole."

Tony mimicked Weasel's shrug. "I've been called worse," he said. "See you never, Goldilocks."

Tony headed to the door as he heard the murmurs of concussed patrons stirring from the floor. He heard Captain America apologize to the bartender and thanked him before following Tony out of the bar. They got back to the night's cold embrace, trudging back to Tony's car.

"You didn't have to be an antagonistic prick," Wilson first stated when they all got into the vehicle. "He helped us out."

"Only after he dragged us around with that smartass mouth of his," Tony said, speeding away from the bar. "We got what we needed. What's the worry?"

"Um, did you forget that his friend is a man called Deadpool and that he defeated you, Cap, Black Panther and Agent Ross in one go?"

"Um, correction, he didn't defeat us," Tony argued on his behalf, not Captain America's. "We captured him… he just ripped his hands off and got away."

Wilson gestured with his palms upward. "And do I need to say more?"

"Relax, that lunatic wouldn't even think about attacking us," Tony dismissed Wilson's concern. "No—he's too busy trying to find whoever screwed him over. Which also happens to be the same guy we're looking for."

"Sam's right, Tony," Rogers added to the conversation. "You didn't need to treat him so poorly."

"If I didn't, we wouldn't have gotten the list," Tony maintained. "Look—we tried it your way. It didn't work. We tried it my way and it did. I paid the guy like a thousand dollars. It'll cover the cost for tonight, tomorrow and tomorrow night. He's fine."

"Still didn't need to act like an ass," Wilson commented.

"Well, I didn't ask for your opinion, did I?" Tony said, switching lanes to get back to the compound as quick as possible. "In any case, we need to stark looking up all these names. Find out who's alive. Dead. Who did what? All of that in the database? Hey, FRIDAY?"

" _Yes, sir?"_

"Search through the names of the list I scanned for you," Tony ordered. "Look up recent job locations, residential addresses, associations—really, anything that might be useful in regards to figuring out which one killed Peter's parents."

" _Yes, sir._ "

Tony picked up speed. "When we get back, we should have some kind of an answer."

* * *

They sat around the conference table, reading FRIDAY's results on all the information she gathered in regards to the names Tony scanned of the 2007 deadpool sheet. A handful were already dead according to their legal death certificate. Others incarcerated and a few random ones took no part in any violent endings. They were simple intimidators.

Everett drove up, much to Tony's chagrin. Rogers notified him and now, Everett stood by the door, arms crossed and lips pinched as he read FRIDAY's report on the list.

Everett hummed. "Well, this definitely narrows the playing field," he said, reviewing the screen FRIDAY displayed for them. "The questions remains is who did it and who will Deadpool go after next."

"Who cares about Deadpool?" Tony didn't get the fascination with the crazy mercenary. "Let's focus on the real culprit."

"We can't exactly let Deadpool run free, Tony," Rogers said from his seated position at the table. "He already killed one man."

"Deserved it if his records are accurate."

Rogers released a weary sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. "We aren't executioners, Tony. We can't support a person who goes around killing others, despite the fact they may be criminals. That's not who we are."

"And we aren't positive that Deadpool won't go after Peter anyway," Everett claimed. "He could be eliminating the competition or doing an audition—"

"Audition to kill someone?" Tony heard ridiculous things in his life, but that sounded absurd. Audition to kill someone by killing another. What was this mad world they lived in?

Everett didn't even favor him with a glance. "You would be surprise."

"We should do a fifty mile radius cover," Rogers advised. "Check on all those in the vicinity. Keep tabs. I'll have Nat check-in to help."

"And what if this Deadpool guy shows up?" questioned Wilson.

"Don't engage alone," Everett warned. "Call for back-up." Everett checked his watch. "Shit—I have to run. Need to be in DC." Everett deposited his coffee cup in the trash and pulled on his jacket. "Keep me posted. I'll let you know if I learn anything new as well."

Everett left as quickly as he came. Rogers asked FRIDAY to turn the screen off and room returned to a morning glow from the rising sun. Tony had his head in his hands, thinking over the criminals in his mind when FRIDAY dinged him.

_"_ _Sir? A reminder that you promise to show Peter your nano-technology suit this morning."_

Tony massaged his eyebrows. He remembered promising Peter another go at the nano-technology after the yesterday's brief introduction. "Thanks FRIDAY," he said, stiffly getting up from his seat. The lack of slumber didn't do so well for his joints. "Cap—don't have fun without me. Keep me in the know. Before Big E."

He left the conference room and made his way back to his lab. Peter was already there, eager and stoked to work on the nano-technology again. The boy learned quick, already having a good grasp on the foundation and mechanics. As they tinkered and played with Tony's suit, with Peter babbling excitedly along, Tony did his best to stay focus on the present, but he couldn't keep the fear of losing Peter to an assassin.

Like the way he lost his parents.

"Are you okay, Mr. Stark?"

Tony lowered the screwdriver. "Yeah. Of course," he dismissed Peter's concern. "And did you seriously call me my by dad's name?"

"Sorry, I meant,  _Tony_ ," Peter corrected himself. "Are you sure? You look a bit… out of it."

Tony released a weighty sigh. "Just tired. Didn't get any sleep last night."

"Oh, well, if you want to go to bed or take a nap, we don't have to do this right now," Peter said, trying to accommodate Tony's schedule.

"No, no, no," Tony said, swatting Peter's suggestions aside. "I'm fine. Besides, I rather being working here with you than take a silly nap. I can do that later. Right now, I want to spend time with you."

Peter dropped his chin. "You don't have to. Really."

"I want to," Tony asserted, waiting until Peter lifted his head up again so that he could look him directly in the eyes. "I enjoy our time together. It's nice to have another person in the building to geek about robots and physics.

"So, honestly, don't feel bad," Tony gave him a warm smile, "I'm enjoying my time."

For a moment, Peter said nothing. But then, "Thank you."

And like that, they both grabbed their tools and continued their respective work. A few minutes later, they returned to their normal bickering, wisecracking repartee. Peter enthusiastically watched Tony's demonstrations and mini lessons about nano-technology, coming up with his own theories or designs until Pepper knocked on the door reminding Tony to not starve Peter.

They called it a day in the lab, both heading out to join the others and for Tony to spend some family time with Pepper and Maria. When he took his daughter in his arms, his only thought was the single promise he made to himself about keeping Maria and Peter safe from all dangers that threatened their lives.

A promise he must keep if he wanted Peter to live to his seventeenth birthday.


	16. God's Perfect Idiot

Now, you are probably wondering what the hell this chapter is going to be about. You already read everything from the dad feels to creep vibes. This, well, this is going to be different. But don’t worry! It’s still rated K+. Wait… what? Teen? Okay, fine! Teen then. It’s rated Teen. Jesus… how delicate are you readers?

Let’s start. There I am. Standing in the middle of the apartment that I once shared with Blind Al, trying to make sure this enhanced celebrity doesn't bleed out all over the old rug. For someone so small, he bleeds a lot. He keeps yammering, asking to be taken somewhere else or for his phone (which, shush! Don't tell him that I broke it). 

Now, you're probably wondering how I got into this bloody mess. Well, it started when a short, elfin-like creature with a bow and arrow shot at me. Hold on... what? That's too far back? It's my story! Shit. It's not my story. I only get a fucking chapter?! Oh... never mind then. Forwarding. Okay, so the double SparkNotes version: met Agent Barton who introduced me to Avengers who asked me to help them on a case involving Spidey-boy. Caught up? Good.

Let's get on with the show... story.

* * *

_Half-hour ago_

As we already revealed, I'm working with the Avengers. Part of their team actually, but only because they begged me. Honestly, I feel like I'm doing all the heavy-lifting on this mission. Not once have the other Avengers contacted me (granted, they did go to Weasel, but that is beside the point) or done recon on the possible suspects. That was all up to me. 

Which is why I'm sitting on top of this house, drawing out my plan of attack. It's pretty accurate. The duplex homes. The broken light. The driver standing by the hood of his car smoking a cigarette. I got them all. Including the extra bad character. I have my katanas crossed at his neck. He's begging, "Oh! Please, Mr. Deadpool! Don’t kill me! I need more lines to be remembered!” Yeah, well, already I think he is a waste of space. A real distraction from the actual plot of the story.

What’s more distracting is his name. Birth name: Lester. Lester?! Most have been the least favorite child. He doesn’t go by Lester anymore. He’s goes by the name Bull’s Eye. Because Hawkeye was already taken.

But, let’s look at his resume, shall we?

Government operative; former freelance assassin, professional thief, mercenary, extortionist, Major League Baseball pitcher…

Yeah. A jackass of all trades. Probably why he has no friends and Palmer ratted him out in a heartbeat—which is unfortunate that Palmer didn’t survive our playdate. I kind of liked him. Scratch that. I didn’t want Griggs to win the cash, but Palmer died. Damn him.

The driver flicks out his cigarette on the street and reaches into his jacket for a strip of gum. Another person enters the scene. Blonde, well-built, blue-eye California Dreamin’. A human clone of Ken Barbie. Now, what the hell is Ken Barbie walking out and about?

Spoiler alert! He’s not really Ken.

That would be Lester. AKA Bull’s Eye.

What an unfortunate name in this instance. And yes, readers, that’s foreshadowing.

Bull’s Eye and all of his glory approaches Mr. Driver. I slither closer. Bull’s Eye asks for the time. Ooh… a classic and cliché move the bad guy does right before—Holy motherfucker! He just stabbed that guy! With a needle. Okay, yep. Mr. Driver is down. He’s gone. Dead. Well, that is… a shame. Really. Now my whole drawing is messed up. That guy was supposed to live. Damn it! I hate when things go off script.

I reach for my katanas, ready to make introductions when the front door of a duplex home opens. Why is my timing off tonight? I stay in the shadows, tapping fingers for this kid to hurry up and carry on his way to God knows where? What the hell is this kid doing out at night anyway? Scratch that. Of course kids are out at night. What was he thinking? But right now? With a killer just a few feet away?

What the hell is he doing?! Why is this dumb kid going straight to the fuckin’ car? Uh—hello? Bull’s Eye is in the driver’s seat. Not Mr. Dead Driver.

If I have to go and rescue this kid’s ass, I’m going to…

Holy Shit! Let’s pause here a minute so I can gather my bearings.

 _Pause_.

As you already probably figured it out, the kid is actually Peter Parker. Yep. The same one you’ve been reading about for the past fifteen chapters. Honestly, with everything happening around him, I didn’t think he was allowed out of his 100 acre cage. Apparently, I’m wrong. That never happens.

Okay, so I have little Petey skipping (“I’m not skipping!”)… okay, loping over to the car and gets in. I have two options.

Option 1: Go in. Kill Bull’s Eye. Rescue Peter Parker and become his beloved hero.

Option 2: Stay here another thirty seconds and let Bull’s Eye kill the bitty spider.

I think we all know which option I picked.

 _Unpause_.

Time for another fuckin’ dance off. I stand up and jump, landing like a dazzlingly, perfect modeled superhero. Again, not because I want to. It’s bad for your knees and very impractical, but that’s in the script, so… I’m really embracing the battered patellar tendon at the moment as I slide up to the dance floor.

I’m doing this old school style.

For my opening act, I chose the gateway crash routine. Don’t know what that is? Wait and see.

I make my running start, arms pumping into a full on sprint. When the stolen car and kidnapped child come into exact location, I hurl myself, feet first at the driver's window. Arms crossed, spinning in the air like a ballerina, I crash right through the window and land on Bull’s Eye’s lap.

We stare into each other’s eyes. Long and lovingly. Two dudes, trying to make it in the world, but torn apart by their destinies. One as a second-rate character and another (me!) as a legendary kiss-ass. And like every good tragedy, we are forced to battle one another and it's truly heartbreaking. Mostly because at that moment, I punch him hard right over his heart. 

The struggle begins. We kick, punch, stab and, overall, having a swell time in each other's company. I'm sliding all over the front seat as he wrangles out a gun like the cowboy he is. Me, on the other hand, only have my real guns available at the moment. 

Maximum effort.

I shove my feet in Bull’s Eye face. He grunts, like music to my ears. It got me singing my all-time favorite tune, “Push It.” I hum along as I battle Bull’s Eye. Like any typical fight, there’s violence and blood. I punch Bull’s Eye in the nose and throw his arm out to wrestle the gun from him. And for story purposes, the gun drops to the floor. Without his gun, he uses his leg to side-kick me like a little pu—wussy (happy, censorship!). I slam his leg, cracking it right on the gear shift.

Bull’s Eye growls as his ankle snaps. He grips the wheel and takes a sharp turn to throw me off. Smart, considering I didn’t have a seatbelt. I fly in my seat. My face smashes against the window and I think, “Did I forget to turn off the toaster oven? Shit. I forgot to turn off the toaster oven. Damn it!”

The car straightens out. Free from the window, I flip and ready to use all my flutter kick power. Except, Bull’s Eye is a cheap cheat. During the whole fast turn, he got his gun again. Don’t ask me how. I have no idea. It makes no sense how he got the gun from the floor. Let’s agree that it’s lazy writing.

Bull’s Eye does his clever, maniacal grin. Like with a gun he wins this whole fight. Obviously, he’s unaware that I am one gigantic bulletproof vest. He gets ready to pull the trigger on me. I don’t do anything, mostly because what can he do to me? I already tried killing myself. Harder than it looks.

And it continued to be so even at this moment. Neither of us expected it because right before Bull’s Eye fires, a hand shoots from the back and yanks Bull’s Eye arm back to the point it snaps. Like pop, lock and drop type of move. In desperation, Bull’s Eye fingers the trigger.

Loud shots echo in the car. One bullet plows into me. I hardly feel it. Kidding! I do. But, can’t die. Remember?

Anyway, I’m pissed off. Why? Because Bull’s Eye put a hole in my suit! Does he know how long it takes me to piece all this cloth together? And keep it clean and ready for the next mission? What? You thought—it doesn’t take a couple of seconds! I don’t have spares! That’s all part of the video editing process.

Deviating here. I’m pissed off and you know what happens when I am pissed off? Well, if you don’t, you’re about to find out.

I take out my dagger and chuck right at Bull’s Eye’s chest. As expected, the shock of a knife gutting his chest hits him hard. He slams on the break and if you know anything about physics is that I go right through the windshield.

Don’t worry! I’m not dead. I didn’t splatter all over the pavement. As I fly through the windshield, I grab ahold of the steering wheel. Yeah—right? Cool move. Impressive and one for the books. Anyway… so, there I am, on top of the hood and hanging onto the steering wheel as Bull’s Eye is bleeding out all over the front seat. Like, his whole face is bloody from his broken nose and his chest has my dagger sticking out of him like a miniature kebab.

He’s angry too. Like, Jason Voorhees angry. Scowling and all disfigured, he hits the accelerator, driving madly around this tinsel town to fling me off. But, I’m not a fling type of person. I’m dedicated and devoted. I’m a tender lover. His attempts to throw me off him is just… heartbreaking!

If that’s the way he wants to be, then I am cool with this whole Swift-Perry break-up. Ending this bad blood between us because I’m really done dealing with this shithead of a mercenary. I counter his turns to cause him confusion to give me enough type to draw my gun. Yeah, if he’s going to be a cheater, might as well make it even.

In lickety-split, I take aim and fire. The bullet charges and smacks right in the middle of Bull’s Eye’s forehead.

And, yes. Yes I did yell, “Bullseye!”

The annoying prick slumps and when I took full control of the wheel, he flops over his seat. Great! Now, I have to do all the work in keeping this car from crashing. Thanks a lot Bull’s Eye!

I stand fully up and bend over, looking down the street as I carefully guide the car to a more reasonable area to stop. Not that I had much control in that department, considering I’m on the hood. So, I squeeze my tight ass and slim, muscular and envious bod right through the broken windshield into the driver’s seat. Obviously, Bull’s Eye is making the whole situation awkward in weird, but I kick his dumbass out of my way and take full control of the car.

Which was perfectly time because we came up to an empty spot on the side of the street. The car slows to a stop before its settles in one exhaust.

“Holy shit!” I shout. “I’ll have to re-write that whole chapter in my memoir.”

I sigh, looking over at dead Bull’s Eye. “Ugly son of a bitch. Perverted and dangerously unhinged psychopath killer, who kidnaps children to do… oh shit.”

I twist in my seat to look in the back of the car. There sat Peter Parker. Innocent, young and surprisingly pale for a Caucasian. He’s haphazard in his seat, clutching the side of his chest to keep the blood from…

“Holy fuck! You’re bleeding!”

He really is bleeding. Blood seeps between the gaps of his fingers. The kid is breathing, slow and steady to withstand the pain.

“Err… yeah,” Peter mumbled. “I, um… a bullet, um, it um… it hit me.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Definitely wasn’t part of the plan. Why is everything going off the fucking script? Jesus fucking Christ! Think Deadpool. Think! You can’t let him bleed to death in the backseat of a car. You can’t take him to the hospital either. Explain that to a group of dumb police officers and doctors. If I drive to where the Avenger’s compound is, the boy will definitely die.

Shit. That leaves one option.

I set the car in reverse and speed out of the neighborhood. The kid is sliding in his seat and I yell at him to buckle up. He does his best considering his condition.

“W-who are… you?” he stutters through his gritted teeth.

“Who? Me? I’m just your knight and shining armor, Baby Boy,” I claim as I twist the wheel as the car goes around the bend. “How you holding up?”

The kid’s silent for a split second. “Like… I’m about to… puke.”

“Well, try not to.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

Do I have some kind of menacing face? I mean, I thought my mask was quite good-looking compared to others. “No—I’m going to get you help,” I say. “You just have to try not to bleed to death, okay?”

Little Peter nods, but I can tell he’s a bit out of it. His shirt is getting redder by the second. Anyway, I sped all the way out of Queens and to our final destination. Thus, that is why I am here. Standing in the middle of Blind Al’s apartment, carrying a bleeding Peter Parker in my arms. The boy is somewhat cold. Not dead cold, but… a bit disconcerting. Not entirely sure if he’s going to make it.

“W-what?”

Did I say all that aloud? Damn it. “Nothing,” I tell the boy.

I drop him on the couch and rummage through my old stash of meds as Peter keeps badgering me on and on about, “Wait… what are you badgering me about?”

Peter takes that moment to crack his eyes open. “Call—”

Oh. Right. Tony. Stark. That guy. Yeah… I’m not really in the mood to deal with him. Besides, I have everything under control here. After chugging a can of beer, I went to work on the kid’s wound. Of course, he resists. Keeps trying to pull away from me and begging to be taken to the Avengers or something or another. I wasn’t really paying attention to his words. I’m trying to utilize my skills in Operation to real life surgery.

I got the shirt and jacket off him and, boy, that kid is ripped! I mean… what does he have? A ten pack? Jesus Christ!

Anyway, I get the wound clean with some alcohol. That made the boy cringe and whimper. “Suck it up,” I grunt him.

I carefully dig for the bullet with a pair of tweezers as Blind Al goes on and on about stupid shit like needing cocaine and heroin or whatever drug she used up to make her go blind. The boy lets out a guttural cry as I yank the bloody bullet right out of the boy’s chest.

Okay, I honestly feel a bit sorry for causing that pain.

I let the bullet drop to the floor. The kid is losing a lot of blood. Why is his heart-rate so fast? “Hey—you wanna cool it? Fucking calm down,” I tell him. “Trying to kill yourself?”

The kid turns his head up to me. “I-I have you… to do that for me.”

“Cute kid,” Teens are so angsty and angry nowadays. “I got that bullet out of you. Don’t make me stick it right back in.”

I clean the wound again. Mixed blood and alcohol dripped down onto the old, fat lady couch. I take out needle and thread. “Warning: this will hurt. A bit. I think. Don’t know. Figured I should say it.”

I stitch up his wound, closing it as I wipe the blood away to see what I was stitching. Again, the kid’s rapid heartbeat isn’t helping the situation. I eventually sew the wound together. Not a great job, but it will do.

Typically, I don’t have to worry about such nonsense as I heal too quickly for anything to be problematic. But as a former, human mercenary, I picked up the trade skills of first aid. Once I stitched the wound up, I made a homemade bandage out of cloth and duct tape. What? I’m not an actually fucking doctor nor is this a fucking hospital! It’s an old coke den.

“There you go, kid. Good as new,” I tell him. “Although, you may want to wait a bit before bolting. You did lose like a lot of blood, which is surprising because you should be dead by the fact that you bled all that amount.”

Peter’s little chest barely lifts up as he breathes. “Who… are you?”

“Deadpool.”

“Is that your real name or made-up name?”

He’s a cutie, isn’t he? “Made-up,” I answer, “but it fits perfectly, right? Could become the next Marvel hit movie, am I right?”

“What?” The little baby looks so confused.

Whatever, I really don’t have time to explain all this madness. “You need rest, little Spidey. You want me to sing you a lullaby or tell you a bedtime story?”

Peter’s brows crinkle. “I… I have to talk to—”

I put my gloved finger on his pink lips. “Shooo,” I coo. “Rest little, strong, crazy-ass baby.”

“I’m n-not… tired,” the little, bitty spider slurs his words. Eyes blink in a weary effort to stay awake. “I n-need to… May…”

The boy’s eyes sideways, half-lidded as his little face pinches into one of determinism until it slackens. His head lolls to the side and he is out. Finally! You know, he looks so adorable when he’s asleep. Not a care in the world.

I give him a little kiss on his forehead. “Sleep tight, my little bed bug!”

Blind Al shambles into the room. One waft and she scoffs. “Great. Now I have to pay for a damn carpet wash,” she huffs. “Why the hell did you bring it here? Why not your place?”

“Because blood doesn’t match with the décor at my place,” I shout at her. Why do I fuckin’ have to explain everything to her? “Do you have anything other than beer?”

“Like what? Apple juice?”

Hardee-har-har. “Anything at this point just so I could throw it at you!” I yell. “But, apple juice would be nice.”

“I don’t have that sugary shit.”

“Just regular shit?”

“Don’t even have that. Can’t find it.”

“That’s because you’re blind, Ray Charles,” he quips, heading over to the kitchen. I scour the refrigerator. She needs to update her grocery list. Beer and mangos isn’t much of substance. “I’m gonna have to go to bodega. You have absolute shit.”

“I told you,” Blind Al grumbles as she tries to find a way to a seat. She almost sits on the baby, but feels his legs in time. “Why you gotta let him take up the whole damn couch?”

“Um, because he’s bleeding lick a suck pig and needs to be horizontal,” I tell her. “Now, I’m out. You watch him.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“It’s supposed to be an insult,” I retort. “Be like all other babysitters and pretend to watch. I gotta go pick up some formula for the baby.”

I leave the apartment and back to the stolen car. Sure, it’s dented, shattered and the interior is left to be desired, but it’s a car. I don’t need to call Dopinder and tell this whole damn story all over again. Bull’s Eye’s dead body is still in the front seat. I actually forgot about him.

A dark, red hole oozed thickly dead center of his forehead. A professional hit. Well done, Deadpool. Well done.

But now, I have to deal with all the blood that coated the leather seats. And do something with the body. God—all this extra effort for a simple “talk”. This sucks. Never ever work with kids again. Kids are the worst.

Deal with it all later. Need to get some kind of juice. That’s what kids drink right? I got to the bodega. At this point, Sebastián the bodega owner isn’t even phased by my appearance. He lets me buy three bottles of juice, a bag of Lays and a Twix bar without much of a greeting. The way I like it.

I get back to the borrowed blood bank car and throw the grocery items in the back when I hear a phone go off. There, on the floor in the back, was a phone. It was lit up with a face taking up the entire screen. I pick up and admire the red-haired beauty. Damn… who is she?

The phone stops ringing. I check and she’s listed as Aunt May. Oh… I see. The kid’s guardian. Got it. Probably wondering where he is.

The phone goes off again. This time it’s the big guy. Tony Stark.

I still don’t answer. In fact, I hit ignore and copy his number onto mine. May need it in the future. I copy all the necessary contacts from his phone before I unsheathe my katana. One slice and the fancy phone is split in two. Dead. Done. What? The kid will receive a new one anyway. Can’t have Iron Man come storming into Blind Al’s apartment. May get the wrong impression.

I return to the apartment. Blind Al is sitting in that old IKEA rocking chair. Hadn’t move since I left. Typical.

She hears me come in. “Kid is still asleep.”

“How would you know? You’re blind.”

“Because he hasn’t said a word.”

You see what I am dealing with? This is why my life is difficult. I check on the kid. He’s still out. His stitches are holding up, but I need to redo his bandage. Damn it! I knew I forgot something. I go back to the kitchen and grab a new cloth to replace the bloody one.

The kid doesn’t even flinch when I rip off the soaked bandage. I splash more alcohol on the kid’s wound. It’s healing nicely. Less blood. I tape up the new bandage over the wound. I let the kid sleep. Not because he deserves it. Because I don’t want him fighting me at the moment. Not when I need to complete my mission in regards to Bull’s Eye.

“Keep babysitting him,” I say to Blind Al and she responds with some half-ass remark. I don’t even bother listening because that is how much I care what she says.

I drag Bull’s Eye’s body out of my new car. He’s heavier than I thought. It’s like moving a hippo’s carcass with an odor of Rudy Giuliani’s balls. Don’t ask me what that smells like. It’s not pretty. Definitely not lavender scented.

It’s a good thing no one speaks in this neighborhood. We all have dirt on one another and keep a code of silence. It’s an honor code thing we all have. What? I never said I hang-out in a good place. Nor did I say I was a good person. I think you already kind of figured that out on your own.

I search the perverted child-kidnapper, checking his pockets. Like any reasonable, talented mercenary, I find a burner phone, wallet with a fake ID and two hundred dollars in cash (pocketing that! Call it payment) and a keychain with a single key. How mysterious!

I check the phone. Only a few phone calls. Not all from the same number. I move to the gallery next. Might find some… blackmail photos. Nope. Just pictures of the kid. Wow. A complete stalker. How did this kid not notice?

Hmmm… well, this guy got his intelligence from someone. I go back to the numbers. Let’s give them all a call.

I dial each number. The first five were all dead. No number found in existence. Suspicious.

It wasn’t until the sixth number that I got a recording. Oh my! Well, there’s a twist you don’t see every day. This is good stuff. Very good stuff. Thank you Bull’s Eye! You were somewhat useful in the end.

Now, we’re going to take a short break and do some of the behind the scenes sort of research. I mean, it’s boring anyway. You won’t find it fascinating. Anyway, take this time to eat, use the bathroom, masturbate or whatever you fucking do while waiting.

* * *

 And we’re back. I know. It was pretty quick.

Now, you are in the second act. We can finally move on with the story. As I was saying in the previous act, thanks to Bull’s Eye, I now have my next target lined up and who better than to be my sidekick on this mission than little, bitty Spider-baby.

Who is awake and sitting up, examining his patched-up wound. “W-what did you do to me?”

“I saved your life,” I say. “You’re welcome.”

Peter caressingly massages his wound. “Are you some kind of doctor?”

“Nope.”

The answer didn’t surprise the boy. He closes in on himself, wrapping his bony arms around his bare-chest. “Um… where are my clothes?”

Oh. Right. I forgot I threw his bloody clothes in the garbage truck along with Bull’s Eye’s corpse. Johnson is a pretty cool garbage man. Doesn’t care what I throw in there.

“Gone. Trashed,” I say as I rummage through Blind Al’s drawers to find some clothes for him.

I hand him one of Blind Al’s shirt and old lady shorts. Peter accepts the clothes and he honestly looks like an American version of Oliver Twist. The clothes are too big for a skinny runt like him. But, it’s better than him wearing boxers. That would be way too distracting.

He drinks two of the three bottles of apple juice and the few chips I left for him. There was no more Twix. I ate that. “Um… who are you exactly?”

“A good Samaritan.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Oh.” The baby Spider stays silent for a second. “So… what exactly happened last night?”

Oh, great. Did he miss the entire thing? He was there for the whole event. I give him a brief, but detail summary. “A merc killed your driver. I killed the merc. I saved you. And… scene!”

Peter blinks, seemingly still lost. “So… the guy in the driver’s seat wasn’t my driver.”

I deflate, arms dangling. I thought Peter Parker was a genius of some sort? Did I read the file wrong? “Did you not hear a word I said? What? Could you not tell that the guy is a bad guy?!”

“I was in the back.”

“No excuse,” I claim. “You stop him from using his gun on me. Doesn’t that mean you knew he was a bad guy?”

“I was trying to stop someone from being killed,” the kid answers. Then his eyes narrow questionably at me. “Wait… how did you know that he wasn’t my driver? And why were you in the area? Were you following me?”

“Who me? Yeah… you wish. No, I wasn’t following you. I happen to be your friendly, neighborhood Deadpool,” I reply. “I saw you were in trouble, so I saved you. Nothing to it. Well, besides that whole fight scene. Getting thrown around a bit. Shot at. I can keep going.” I pause a moment, remembering something important. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you—how are you feeling?”

“Um… nothing. A bit light-headed to be honest,” Peter says. “How much blood did I lose?”

“Enough to donate. Drink up that juice. Got it for you, my precious,” I purr as I stroke his cheek.

Peter scrunches his face and pulls away. “Don’t call me that,” he says and takes the third bottle. “How long was I out?”

Hmm… “Four hours? It’s only two in the morning.”

The little boy shoots up to his feet in a fret. “Two in the morning!” he exclaims. “I-I… I have to call Aunt May!” His head spins in different directions. “Where is my phone?”

And we all remember what I did with that.

“Oh, it’s broken,” I tell him.

“I can fix it.”

“Beyond repair.”

Peter tenses. “Wait… so, no one knows I’m here?”

“I’m gonna have to say that’s a positive negative.”

“What?”

“No.”

Peter looks frantic. “I gotta call Aunt May! I… I need your phone!”

“Go ahead,” I say, tossing him the burner phone that belonged to dead Bull’s Eye. “Do you even remember her phone number, Baby Boy?”

Peter freezes. His mind looks blank upon the realization that he doesn’t remember their numbers. And here comes the pickle. Can’t contact someone if you don’t remember their number. The challenges these young kids have to go through these days.

Peter lowers the phone as he realizes the futileness of it. He looks back to me. “Do you think I could… um, unless… am I free to go?”

I almost said yes, when I remember the change of plans. “What if I say no?”

The boy stares. “Are you saying I’m not free?” he asks, concern. “Are you holding me hostage?”

Blind Al, who happens to make her reappearance in the living room, shuffles him. “That’s all he does, kid.”

Peter immediately pales and stumbles a bit away from me. I’m actually hurt by that. “Are you holding her hostage too?”

“What? No!” Look, I know I say I’m not a hero and that I am a bad person. But, I never said I’m a bad  _guy_. There’s a difference. “I’m holding no one hostage. Ignore her. She’s just angry because I hid her coke from her and she can’t find it.”

Peter peeks back to Blind Al. “She’s blind.”

“Spoiler alert, mini-Stark! I know that,” I say. “And I’m not holding you hostage. I was only curious to know what you would do.”

“Um… leave anyway,” Peter shrugs.

That sounds reasonable. It’s something I would do. “Well, it’s a long walk from here to your little clubhouse.”

Peter glances around the den. “Where exactly am I?”

“Lower East Side.”

“Oh.” He makes a nervous glance to the door as if trying to figure out if he could leave or not. “So, um, well, I guess I should, err, get a cab or something then. Uh, thank you, Mr. Deadpool, for saving me and everything. I owe you.”

He limps to the door. Poor baby! I simply want to pick him up and cuddle him. “Wait? That’s it?” I exclaim. “You’re just going to leave? You’re not at all worried about another merc gunning for you?”

That made the kid pause. He turns. “Are there more?”

“Probably. Most likely. Definitely.”

That left Peter’s head spinning. “Wait… so is there or isn't?”

I give a helpless shrug. “You’ll find out once you go out there.”

And the boy stops inching to the door. “If I stay a little longer, will you tell me what you know?” he inquires, standing a bit protectively near the wall, “about this whole… merc did you say?”

I clap with a giddiness. Great! Bro-time! I lunge at Peter and drag away from the door and sit him down on a couch, snapping my fingers at Blind Al and beckoning her to bring us a gourmet meal.

“Didn’t you tell me that I have shit in my kitchen?” she remarks at me.

“JUST BRING US SOMETHING!” I shout. “God—why do I have to play host all the time that I am here?”

“Because I never invite you here,” comments Blind Al. “You just show up.”

She shuffles to the kitchen anyway. Like the fail hostess she is. I turn back to Baby Boy. He sits straight up, eyes flickering from Blind Al to me. The bottom eyelids flatten as the corners of his lips pull back near his ears. He moves his hands from the sides to his front.

“Holy shit—are you afraid? Don’t be!” I say to calm his stressed nerves. “I’m not going to hurt you and neither will Blind Al. She’s just a disgruntled, old hag. This addiction she’s kicking isn’t making her a sweet, old grandmother that’s for sure.”

“She wasn’t the one disconcerting me.”

Oh! He means me. Yeah. Should have guessed that. “Who? Me? Please, Baby Boy, if I want you dead, you would be dead,” I promise. “Trust me… I’m not the scary one in this household.” I jab my thumbs in Blind Al's direction. Have you ever seen her try to shoot with a gun? Yeah... she's scary as hell when she shoots off her weapon. 

But there's doubt in Spidey's expression. “Says the man wearing a mask,” he gestures to my face. “What are you hiding underneath there?”

“Just my handsome, scarred face,” I tell him, kicking back in my seat as I relax. “Honestly, you don’t want to see it. Looks like Hugh Jackman’s burnt ass. It isn’t pretty.”

“What?”

“Point is that I won’t hurt or kill you with mask on or off,” I lean back on two legs of my chair. “I mean, if I did, I wasted a lot of effort saving your damsel-in-distress ass from Bull’s Eye.”

“Bull’s Eye?” Peter repeats, skeptical. 

“I know, right?” He also finds the irony in such a name. “What? Was the name Hawkeye already taken?”

Peter tilts his head. “Um… yeah, so are you—what are you?”

“What do you mean? I told you already. Deadpool.”

“Like a hero? Like an Avenger?”

I laugh. Aloud. Not a sweet laughter either. A very rumbustious, hearty laughter. But when I realize Peter looks offended, I stop. “Sorry—no. I’m not a hero. Far from it.”

“A villain then?” he says as he leans a little away from me.

“Nope. Just a good, old fashion mercenary myself.”

The stiffness returns to Peter’s posture. I roll my head. “I’m still not going to kill you, kid,” I say. “Trust me. Well, actually, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust me either. I know that doesn’t help my cause. And I don’t really want to get anymore blood on this outfit. Do you know how long it takes to wash blood out of clothes? It’s basically why I wear red.”

Peter blinks after that long ramble. “Are you insane?”

“Funny that you ask.”

Silence. Crickets.

Peter breathes. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes and No. In my mind, I’m perfectly and handsomely sane.”

“And outside your mind?” the boy asks.

“I get mix results,” I reply. “Some call it brilliance.”

“And the others?”

I shrug. “Who cares about those losers?” I drop all four legs of my chair back on the floor. I lean closer to the kid, resting my head in my hand. “I’m more interested in what you think?”

Peter instinctively (and, let’s agree, smartly) leans away from me. “Um… I’m still analyzing at the moment,” he answers as he scoots further into his seat. “So… about, um, Bull’s Eye—why was he after me in the first place? Do you know him?”

“Bull’s Eye? What you think all mercenaries know one another? Why? Because all you superheroes know one another and share a cool club?”

Peter pauses before he innocently shrugs. “Just asking.”

“Well, to help my credibility, I’m thrilled to tell you that I don’t know him,” I proudly state. “Don’t know a thing. Just that his name is Lester and he goes by Bull’s Eye.”

“And you have no idea why he’s after me or wants to kill me?”

“Of course I do, don’t you?”

That throws Peter off guard. “W-What?”

“What?” I mirror. Did Stark and company not tell him? Oh… shit. Was this a top secret mission? No kiddies allowed?

Peter presses on. “I asked first.”

True, he did ask first. But, if Stark and Captain and the Pussy Cat didn’t tell him anything about the mission in regards to his parents’ death, was he supposed to know? Am I obligated to tell him? Shit. I put myself in a delicate position. And I hate being delicate. It’s not my style. I’m all rough and tough and bang, bang. Shit.

“Well, yeah! Everyone knows.” Why the hell did I say that?

Peter appears baffled by that response. “Everyone?” he mutters in shock. “I-I don’t understand. Why was he after me then?”

“Well, you’re, um, Spider-Man. Famous teenager. Celebrity. You know. Famous.”

Peter cocks his eyebrows. “You said that already,” he points out, shifting in his seat. “Are you saying that this kidnapping is an attempt to ransom money from Stark?”

Huh. I didn’t think of that. Sounds like a good lie to follow. “Err… I assume so?”

Peter pinches his face in thought. “That’s stupid,” he states. “Why would anyone want to face up against the Avengers?”

I do not say a single word. I really, really want to. But, I check myself. I say nothing. But I am grinning like a crazy, admired fan. Little does Petey know that I faced up against his heroes and beat them. Well, join forces with them, but same thing. I guess. Not sure.

“I know. Crazy!” I say a little too loudly. “Insane! Maniacal! Absolutely nuts—”

A box of raisins and a bag of peanuts crash right in the middle of us. Except for the fact the baby spider caught the bow of raisins with one hand with his quick reflexes. I turn around to see Blind Al tuttering away, grumbling about how she should just shoot me whenever I come into her apartment.

Idiot. And so unappreciative. Did she forget that I built that stupid bookcase of hers?

“Sorry about her,” I tell Peter. “Again… old hag.”

“I don’t know. I think she’s cool,” Peter comments as he opens the box of raisins. He chops on a few before he spits them out in his hand. “Sorry… stale.”

“Don’t try the nuts then.”

Peter sets the raisins aside. “I’ll take your word for it,” he says. He scratches underneath his chin. “Doesn’t make sense for a single person to do it. This Bull’s Eye has to be working with someone. You said he’s a mercenary, right? Someone hired him.”

Oh my god. Is he asking what I think he is asking? Oh my god. He is. He is! My heart is racing right out of my chest. “Are you saying you want to do a team-up?” I asks with hearts in my eyes.

Can you imagine? Spider-man and Deadpool. Partners in crime. They could call us Spideypool!

But all those high hopes are punctured by a single sentence. “I was thinking more along with telling Mr. Stark and Captain America about it,” Peter relays. “They’ll know what to do.”

Oh, yes. Of course! Disney’s ultimate blockbuster, money-making heroes! They know what to do. Can’t be a Marvel story without them making an appearance or doing the heavy-lifting. Not a superhero story without them. Little, arrogant shitheads.

Peter gets up, a little wobbly at first too. Probably low blood pressure. “So, um, do you have a car by chance?”

“Why?”

“Please answer the question.”

I groan. “Yes. It’s the stolen car. What? You want to go on a road trip?”

“Back to the Compound,” Peter says and I fall flat again. Seriously! Does the kid not see me melting on the floor? What’s he trying to do? Ruin all the fun?

Apparently he doesn’t care, because he keeps on talking about how Stark will solve all his problems. “We can tell Tony what happened tonight,” Peter rattles on. “They would want to meet you too. My aunt especially. To thank you.”

Oooh. I doubt that they would want to see me again. My departure of our last get-together didn’t leave a good impression. A lasting one, but not a good one. I did leave a pair of hands.

However, I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. He is already rallied up, limping to the door. “We should get going,” he orders me about. “Hey? You okay?”

He’s asking me. Right. Got to say something. “Of course! I’m always okay when I’m with you, bub.”

Peter’s quizzical eyes find me. “Bub?”

“Apparently you say that to a friend,” I explain. “I know. Doesn’t sound cool at all.”

“Um, no, it’s okay. Just… weird,” Peter says and Blind Al takes that moment to reappear in the living room.

“You leaving?” she asks, hopeful.

“Sure am, Stevie Wonder,” I tell her. “Duty calls. You know how it is. I have to go. I know you’ll miss me. Tell our children Daddy loves them. And remember… there’s coke still hidden in this apartment. Good luck on never finding it.”

“Fuck you, Wade,” Blind Al mutters.

“Love you too, Al!” I cry. “And go to the grocery store every once in a while, for God’s sake!”

Little Peter brushes past me and goes up to Blind Al. “Thank you for sheltering me,” he says, trying to suck up to her. “It’s kind of you and I’m sorry I bled all over your floor.”

Blind Al’s brows furrow. “Just get the fuck out. I’m tired.”

And Peter takes two, big steps backwards from Blind Al. I shake my head. I told him that she can be a shithead when she’s trying to kick the bucket. Sweet, Mama June… no one ever believes me.

“Don’t worry about her,” I direct Peter to the front door. “She’s been a bitter old lady ever since her grandchildren told her to rot in hell.”

“Wait—what? Really?” Peter inquires.

Poor, poor boy. Such a rare innocence in the world. No fucking wonder Stark and company are so protective of him. He’s a child I would die for!

“Yeah,” I lie to him. “Now, you were saying something about a road trip?”

We get outside where I park the stolen car. It’s completely dark outside. Not even a single light came from the moon or stars. That’s fine. I work better in the dark anyway.

Peter stiffly rounds around the car, heading to the shotgun seat when I grab the little Spidey. “Um, you probably want to sit in the back,” I warn. “Haven’t cleaned the blood off.”

Spidey snaps his hand back from the handle. “Okay, I’ll sit in the back.” He returns to the backseat, but stops. “Um, there’s blood here too.”

“Yeah, but it’s your blood. Not a complete, psychopath stranger’s blood.”

Peter nods. “Good point,” he says as he maneuvers away from the spilled blood. He slams the door closed. “Let’s get going!”

“Oh, sure, but first!” I say, turning on the radio. “We rock out to these sweet tunes and go pick us up some snacks! You like Twizzlers or Red Vines?”

“Um… I’m okay. I think we should just go straight—”

“You need something in your system,” I say. “And it’s not a road trip without sing-alongs and junk food.”

Baby Boy sighs helplessly. “Fine… um, I actually prefer a Milky Way instead of the whole licorice thing. Or a bag of potato chips is fine as well.”

“Perfect!” I say as I get the engine running. “Hold onto your asses. It’s about to be all Vin Diesel up in here.”

“You mean  _Fast and Furious_?”

“Uh, yeah? That's what I said,” I return. “Now… let me do my own commentary, okay?”

I drive out of Blind Al’s apartment and down the street. I park on the side of the road and order the little Spidey to stay in the car. Not safe being outside with all these hitmen looking for him. Peter promises to stay in the car while I go inside to get the food.

I buy him the Milky Way bar, the bag of chips, a bottle of Gatorade and some Benadryl. What? I know what you’re thinking. You’re absolutely right. I’m going to put a few drops in his Gatorade. Why? No reason. None whatsoever.

I purchase the items from Sebastián again. He doesn’t even say a goddamn word. Little fucker. I love him.

I open the Gatorade and add a few drops of the Benadryl. I shake it up. Looks good to me. Won’t notice a thing! I skip back to the car. Peter is still there. He looks on edge. Well, no surprise there. A hitman already came after him once tonight. Maybe another will show up.

I “open” the Gatorade and pass it back to him along with the snacks. “Here you go,” I say. “Drink up!”

Peter looks at the Gatorade funny. “You got me Gatorade? Why?”

“Because it has electrolytes and you lost some blood,” I say in my sweetest, but nonchalant way as to not give away the fact that I somewhat spiked it. “Something to help you replenish. Plus, I got you your Milky Way bar. As promised. See? Told you I was a nice guy.”

“You never said you were or weren’t,” Peter quips in return as he takes the Gatorade and has a drink. “Thank you. You know? You’re not so bad. At least, based off my first impression of you anyway. You're kind of cool. Actually, I think you’ll get along with Mr. Stark. You guys would probably—”

“Oh! Hey! Look at the time!” I exclaim to cut him off. “We better hit the road again or be late. Keep drinking that Gatorade! I want to see it all gone mister or I’ll have my head.”

Peter tips the Gatorade bottle back and keeps drinking. He wipes his mouth with his arm. “Yeah, we better go. I keep getting this weird feeling.”

I hope he doesn’t mean the Benadryl. “All right! Deadpool and Spider-Man! First road trip ever! Spider-pool. Spider-pool. Does whatever a Spider-pool does. Can they beat the world? Sure they can. Cause they’re a team of ass-kickers!”

I hit the accelerator and fly down the street. Somewhat heading north as I watch in the rearview mirror as Peter slowly loses conscious. After twenty minutes driving north, the boy is passed out in the backseat. Wow. Maybe I added too much Benadryl to his drink. Oh well. He’s out.

I turn the car around as I sing along to The Clash, “Should I stay or should I go? If I go there will be trouble. And if I stay there will be double. So ya gotta let me know... should I stay or should I go?”

* * *

 We arrive.

If you want to know, I didn’t drive Peter upstate. I drove downstate. Further south than Manhattan. But, I swear, it’s all in good fun. Peter will be happy to have come along. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet. Or even when it’s years in the future.

I reach back and poke the baby awake. Spider-Man shoots up in his seat. “What? What? Are we here?” he looks wildly around, his befuddled looks fading to one of securitization. “Wait… Mr. Deadpool—”

I sheepishly shrug, palms up. “What? I never said I would take you to the Avengers.”

I stifle a laugh as Peter glares at me. He looks cute when he gets all red. “Where am I?” Peter demands. “Where did you take me?”

“Oooh. You’re going to love this, baby boy,” I tell him, parking the car and shutting it off. “It’s a surprise.”

Peter shakes his head. “No—no. No more surprises! I want to go home! Give me your phone!”

I dodge his hand and get out of the car. “We already talk about this! My phone is useless because you don’t remember their numbers.”

I hear the baby growl in frustration from inside the car. The sun is barely over the horizon. Still dark enough that people in this quaint suburban neighborhood are asleep.

I knock on Peter’s window. “Come on out,” I sing-song to him. “It’ll be fun! You’ll like it. I promise!”

“Take me home!” Peter yells from inside the car.

I release a long, heavy sigh. This would be easier if he simply cooperates. “You are making this less fun for me,” I whine. “Look—I swear to you over Miss June’s lost weight, I promise to take you home once you get out of the car.”

I wait. Peter doesn’t respond. I still wait.

“Are you coming out?”

“No! Because I know you’re lying,” snaps Peter. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know it’s illegal to kidnap children and to take them across state lines?”

What. The. Hell? “How do you know all this?”

“I read!” Peter responds, frantic hitches in his tone. “And you know what? I finished my analysis. You are insane!”

I don’t care anymore. I pull the door open and I see Peter scooting away from the open door, sliding his ass over the dried blood. “I’m not joining you on whatever this thing is,” the kid says trying to dodge my grabs. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Because I can’t leave him in the car. You know. Child safety reasons. What? I’m a responsible adult. So, like any reasonable, good adult, I grab him by his ankles. He appropriately kicks me, but he’s not up to strength. Still recovering from his wound and blood loss and etc. But, I will say this, he’s  _strong_. What a power kick! I bet all those in his kick-boxing class are jealous!

His kick doesn’t throw me off… entirely. I almost tip backwards, but I have a pretty good hold on his ankle that keeps me from falling on the pavement and breaking a hip. If that was how he was going to play, I’ll show him my WWE moves. I went to rip him out of the car, but he sticks to the leather seats. No matter how hard I tug, he doesn’t even budge. What the hell is in that kid’s Wheaties?

I surrender, completely exhausted. Like my muscles are burning! “Look… you wanna know where we are? We are outside of Baltimore. Maryland.”

“Why?” demands the kid.

“Because the guy who tried to kill you also happens to be in cahoots with the person living in that house,” I point to the house in front of us. “Now, aren’t you a bit curious who is trying to kill you? Hmm? Even a little?”

I can see the boy’s mind turning the thoughts over his head. The clogs clicking into consideration as he ponders over his desire to go home over his desire to know answers. By the small sigh and turn of the lips, the boy relents.

“Okay. Fine,” Peter says as he unglues himself. He slides out of the car in his end. “But we aren’t doing anything to them. No fighting or killing. Got it? Just… recon. That way we have something to report back to Tony and the others.”

Oh sure. Go to tell Stark and his boy band. “Of course!” I say.

“And you’ll take me home right after?”

“Sure.”

“Pinky swear?”

I drop my head back in exasperation. “Yes! Fine! Pinky swear. Can we get going? I’m bored!”

Peter shakes his head, but stealthily heads up the cement path to the picket-fence homestead. I skip up to the porch, loping an arm around Peter’s arm. I drag him up with me as I ring the doorbell multiple times.

Peter gapes at me like I’m mad. Well, he’s not completely off. “What the hell are you doing?” Peter whispers. “I thought we are doing recon?”

“We are!” I say, slyly as I hear charging footsteps coming in our direction. “Oh, wait-for-it! Here it comes! The grand reveal! You’re gonna piss in your pants! Just wait. Keep waiting and…”

The front door swings open. An old man greets us, wrinkles mapping out his expression upon our intrusion. His mustache is unkempt, silver hair in disarray as he glowers his frustration and fatigue. He looks like a man with disgruntled with the world. Almost as if he is done with everything and everyone. Like it is he who was betrayed by the injustice in life and not the person who victimized others.

Typical. All politicians act that way.

 Peter clenches beside me. “Y-You’re…”

The old man’s eyes glow. “Peter Parker?” he growls. “What the blazing hell are you—”

 _Pop_!

The soft sound of my silencer gun goes off and Thaddeus Ross yelps as his knee cap is blown off by my bullet. Peter gasps, trying to pull away, but I keep a good grip on him to stop him from running.

“Hi! I’m Deadpool,” I introduce myself as the former Secretary of State hobbles away from the doorway. “Where’re you going? We need to talk.”

I drag Peter Parker into the house with me and slam the door shut. No need to interrupt everyone else’s slumber. That would be just a douche move. Peter is blabbering like the sweet, innocent baby kangaroo that he is. But, I have my eyes on the injured Secretary at the moment. Can’t cope the words out of his mouth.

I catch up to the Secretary and punch him in the face, knocking him flat on his back. I snatch his hand and drag him to a chair to throw him in. Getting everyone settle for our recon mission.

“What are you doing?” Peter gasps the words out from his shocked state.

“Doing recon, duh!” I reply. Which reminds me. Since this story is rated T, I’m going to have to cut this short. You know… censorship doesn’t allow you guys to see all this. So, I’m going to have it end it here.

See you later! Buh-Bye!


	17. Everett Ross II

Everett sat around a table, talking among colleagues about the World Cup. Bets were placed around the table, but Everett didn't participate in such gambling endeavors. He joined in the discussion, admitting he was rooting for Iceland, but he had no desire to lay money on the line. His colleagues joked that he was too “suit” to participate, but Everett smiled in good humor. No, he just needed the money to keep paying the rising health insurance. 

The waiter returned, passing out their drink orders. Mark Clasey picked Le Diplomate as the restaurant to have the business dinner. Although, it was becoming less of a business dinner and more of a friends' gathering as they had yet to even discuss business. Everett knew Mark way back in the day of basic training. Both rose up in their ranks respectively, but in different intelligence communities. Mark worked in NSA. Everett worked in the CIA... alongside the Avengers. The other two, Frank Galvin and Austin Chen, were former co-workers before they splintered into different sections as well. But, they gathered together after a long day of meetings and interviews, especially Everett. His association with the New York Accords left him dead on his feet. But, he managed to make time for dinner with friends, which found him sitting underneath a painstakingly built structure that evoked the spirit of a Parisian brasserie.  

“Everett," Mark said after he had his first sip of beer of the night. "What have you been up to lately?”

Everett answered taking a swing of his beer. "Oh. Just... you know. Espionage and political overthrows. Normal stuff."

“I say! I heard the rumors about how you overthrew your old boss out of his job," poked Frank. "Didn’t believe it. Not Everett Kenneth Ross!”

“Good.”

“Until we saw you at the UN a few weeks ago," Austin added. "Suddenly, you're top dog. Gotta tell us how you did it. What did you do knock that old megalomaniac off his high horse?”

Everett sighed. He didn't care to go into great lengths to explain his sudden promotion. Nor did he want to detail a lie he would be telling them to protect his biggest secret. "I did my job. That's it."

Mark laughed. "You're job? Dude—we all do our jobs, but you don't see us buddying up to Tony Stark or the King of Wakanda!"

“Well, I am a... somewhat ambassador for Wakanda," Everett replied. "As for Stark, we're not friends. In fact, he's a pain in the ass.”

“That's a given," Mark said, "but the fact is he tolerates you enough to call you 'Big E'.”

Everett cursed, derisorily. "Jesus Christ—"

“We work in intelligence, Everett," Frank reminded him. "What did you expect? That we wouldn't go digging?”

He should have known better. Everett flickered glances to each of his old friends. "I thought my friends would expect my privacy or at least be too busy with their own lives to worry about mine."

His three friends looked at one another, before erupting in laughter that drew a few heads their way. 

"Oh, come on Everett," Mark clapped Everett on the shoulder. "Look, it's not every day these things happen. And for one of our friends to be right there in the middle of it too.

“So, you gotta tell us," Mark pressed on, "How big of a dick does Tony Stark have? Has to be huge with his inflated head.”

That earned another rupture of outrageous laughter that Everett found to be abhorrent. The conversation even more so. Everett wished to redirect the dinner to the more business appropriate discussion that he original thought it was going to be. His friends and former colleagues kept teasing him when his phone pinged.

Everett pulled his phone out and checked. To his bitter rejection, it was Tony Stark calling him. 

Austin leaned over in his seat. "Speaking of the devil," he slyly jested, "Iron Man himself is calling."

That got Mark and Frank to scoot closer, but Everett pulled the phone closer to his chest. The phone kept ringing against his ribcage.

"Aren't you going to get that," Mark gestured to the ringing phone.

“Nope," Everett decided and cancelled the call. "Probably calling to insult me.”

"So he is a huge dick, eh?" Austin commented with a wry side grin. That got another rupture of laughter.

The phone went off again. Everett reached for it with plans to shut it off when he saw it wasn't Tony calling. "Excuse me," he abruptly got up from his seat and hurried off outside into the chilled air without his coat. He answered the call. "May? Hey. Is everything—"

"…E-Everett?"

May's voice sounded choked, strained. Almost like she couldn't breathe. 

"May? Are you hurt?" Everett fretted, pacing right outside the doors of the restaurant. He heard the rawness in her choked breaths, struggling to speak. “May—what’s wrong?”

A loud snivel was heard in the background. “It’s P-Peter,” she blubbered. “…He’s missing.”

Everett halted. Peter is missing. Thoughts accelerated inside his head. Heart hammered at an unspeakable rate that Everett’s breath hitched. Peter is missing.

May’s broken voice blubbered on. “He didn’t come home. I can’t… I can’t get a hold of him. Ned said he left, but… he’s not home! He’s not here! I-I can’t find him… Everett, I can’t find him!”

Her sob left Everett’s blood cold. Ruffling sounds replaced May’s cries and Everett heard the familiar, sharp-tongued Tony Stark. “About damn time you picked up,” Tony blasted him. “We have a Code 135 situation at hand.”

“What’s going on?” Everett asked in a quiet voice. Onlookers may think he was collective and cool in his response, but it was a lie.

“The kid was supposed to be back around ten tonight,” Stark began the summary. “An hour passed and no Peter. We tried calling, but went straight to voicemail. Called his friend, but he claimed Peter left in the car that picked him up. Tried calling the man on duty, but no answer either.”

“What about the plates?” Everett asked. “Have you tracked the car’s plates?”

“Don’t know the plates,” Stark answered. “It’s a rental. Got it from some private security corporation. Happy is on it. Waking up every employee to get the plates.”

“Who was the driver? What’s his name?”

“Simmons. Jatan Simmons.”

“The car’s model? Do you have that? What about color?”

“It was black. A SUV of some sort. I don’t know. I wasn’t there when it was rented,” Stark said, rattled. “Look, we already did a fully background check on him. No affiliation to any terrorist group or enemies of ours. That’s all we have at the moment. Cap and Wilson are already on their way to the Ned’s neighborhood to investigate. Vision is downloading… I don’t know what exactly, but he and Wanda are working on it together.”

Everett nodded along. “Okay, okay,” he muttered as he thought over his own plans. “I’ll make contact with the police in the area to see if anyone reported anything. Call once you get the plates or any other updates.”

He almost ended the call, but quickly put it back to his ear. “And tell May we’ll find Peter.”

Everett hung up. He went to the street to hail a cab when he remembered his wallet was inside the restaurant with his coat. He rushed back to the table, his friends merrily laughing and swapping stories or jokes. Everett didn’t know nor care at the moment.

Mark saw him approach. “Hey! We ordered without you,” he said. “I can get the waiter—”

“Sorry,” Everett interrupted, yanking his coat off the chair. “Business. I’ll venmo you for the drink.” And without another word, he strode out of the restaurant and hailed a cab.

The cabbie drove him to around the Capital, heading in the direction to his office. Everett started making phone calls to his trusted agents. So, by the time he arrived at the office, Agent Sharon Carter and a few others were there, dressed in less than work-ideal clothes, but Everett didn’t care. Emergency meetings didn’t require professional attire. Casual was fine.

“What we got?” Everett asked first thing.

“Police reports in the last three hours,” Sharon passed a folder to him. She started to debrief him as she followed him around the office in her sneakers and work-out outfit. “Multiple reports around the vicinity of the Leed’s home stated drunk driving, vandalism, destructive of property and shootings. Callers who reported drunk driving all described the same car.”

“Black Honda, SUV,” Everett said, flipping through the reports. A similar match to the car Stark described. “Do we have plates yet?”

“No one was able to get the plates,” Sharon answered. “What about Stark?”

“It belongs to a private security corporation,” Everett said. “Stark doesn’t own the car; therefore, he doesn’t know the plates. He’s working with the corporation to get the plates.”

“When does Stark hire cars?”

“When he doesn’t want to wreck his million dollar vehicles,” Everett said, arriving at his private office. He unlocked the door and turned on the lights. “Which direction was the car heading?”

“North,” Sharon answered, standing at attention in front of his desk. “My guess is that someone hijacked it before Parker left his friend’s house.”

“That’s one working theory,” Everett responded, scanning the police records. “What about the security cameras? Where are we on those?”

“Jody is on it,” Sharon said. “She’s searching for the SUV.”

Everett massaged his temples with his forefinger and thumb. “Keep me updated,” he ordered. “I have to make another call.”

Sharon took the hint and departed the office, closing it shut behind her. Everett dialed and waited.

“Anything?” came Stark’s voice.

“Police have reports of a black SUV on a suspicion of drunk driving,” Everett said. “I have one of my agents checking surveillance to see if they can follow it. Anything on the plates?”

“That and more,” Stark answered. “I already sent you the full rental contract. Has the plates and everything. Plus, Cap found Simmons.”

Everett sat up in his chair. “Great! Where?”

“On the road outside of Ned’s house. Kicked underneath some other parked vehicle,” Stark said. “Dead. Killed by some kind of injection.”

“Shit,” uttered Everett. Sharon was right. He hoped she was wrong. “I gotta call you back.”

He ended the call. He went to his secured email and brought up the rental agreement Stark sent, passing the plates identity onward to Jody.

In the meantime, Everett checked with old police records. Any reports of lurkers, disorderly individuals and/or suspicious incidents that occurred in the neighborhood. Only a few reports were filed in regards to disorderly conduct in public and even fewer on suspicious individuals or objects.  

A knock at his door pulled him away from his screen. “Yeah? Come in,” he called and the door opened. Jody, a woman in her forties with thick, bobbed hair and square glasses wobbled into the office.

She carried a stack of black and white photographs. “I have my findings in regards to the SUV,” she said in her soft voice that almost sounded childish.

“Great,” Everett reached across his desk and took the photographs from Jody’s hand. “What do we have?”

“You won’t believe until you see it, sir.”

Everett piped up a brow at the vague response. He shuffled through the photographs, quickly glancing at the pixelated images of a car driving recklessly on the streets of Queens. As Everett wondered what was so shocking about a reckless driver, his muscles froze up at the last photograph.

“Oh… shit.”

Everett sucked in a big breath. The photograph was of an individual, dressed from head to toe in one, full-body spandex suit, hanging onto the steering wheel as he laid across the hood of the car.

His eyes flickered up to Jody, who nodded dramatically. “Yeah. It gets better.”

Everett looked at the next photo. The costumed man now stood on the hood. Shit. This was not good.

He sighed, wearied. “Thanks Jody,” he said, giving her permission to leave. Once he was alone in his office again, Everett called up Stark.

Stark answered in one ring. “What do you got for me, Big E? And it better be good or I’m going to hang-up on you this time.”

He must have been too silent for too long as Stark’s voice shouted on his eardrum. “ _Hey_!” he blared. “You there? This better not be a butt dial.”

Everett breathed. “Stark, I found our culprit.”

“Great!” Tony sounded relieved. “Where? Is Peter with him? Is he okay?”

“No… no, Stark, it’s not,” Everett started again. “Tony… it’s Deadpool. He kidnapped Peter.”

Nothing. Nothing for seconds. Then a signal of beeps followed, alerting to Everett that the other line cut off. Stark hung up on him.

Everett sighed, spreading the photographs out on the table. He examined each photograph, eyes lingering on the red suited mercenary. “What did you do with Peter?” he muttered to himself

Another knock at his door and Sharon returned. “Scanned the license plate. Checking all tolls for any signs of the vehicle. Do you want to alert authorities in the area?”

He thought. It wouldn’t be safe for Peter if it became known across the world that he was kidnapped. Nor would it be wise nor safe to let local law enforcement go up against Deadpool. He scratched his chin and thought. “Put out an APB on the vehicle,” he decided. “Say it’s in regards to human trafficking. Highly dangerous and may be in custody of a kidnapped individual. Alert FBI first. Do not approach alone.”

Sharon hesitated. “What about the press, boss?” she asked. “If they wind of this—”

“They won’t,” Everett avowed. “Not on my watch. Keep details minimum. Don’t specify it’s Peter. Play it out as a wanted human trafficker who was last seen in the area. Taken an individual. I would issue an Amber Alert, but that would require a kid’s description. And press always want photographs of the missing child, so label it as a human trafficker.”

Sharon nodded along. “Got it,” she said and vanished from the office to make the report.

Everett logged into his computer and pulled up the surrounding toll bridges around Manhattan. Pictures were always guaranteed and license plates scanned as well. Everett typed in the license plate number. No record.

Might mean Deadpool didn’t drive them back into Manhattan. Time to expand the search. Everett worked around the clock, digging further into information he found in regards to Deadpool and having some of his employees in New York to investigate Deadpool’s favorite drinking holes and hoods. They went and called with no signs of Deadpool and others claiming to not have ever seen a man like Deadpool. Everett, of course, doubted their supposedly “honest” truth.

Additionally, Everett had to spend time coaxing Stark from assaulting Norman Osborn. Despite the evidence that pointed Deadpool had no connection with Osborn, Stark believed Deadpool is associated with Osborn and working on his pretty dime. Everett nearly thought he would have to recall Rhodey from Texas to restrain his friend. Luckily, Pepper spoke to Everett and promised to him that she will reign Tony from doing anything stupid.

So far, Everett had yet to receive any complaints or police reports about Iron Man attacking Norman Osborn in New York.

He received a call from Captain America. They left the crime scene in front of the Leed’s house. It was determined that Simmons was murdered. Poisoned by mercury. Not a good way to go. Captain America also informed Everett that they combed over the route the car taken based off Everett’s team’s findings.

“From what we can tell, it seems Peter put up a good fight,” Captain America said. “Glass scattered here and there on the streets.”

It didn’t surprise Everett that Peter fought back. He wasn’t one to idly accept dire circumstances if he thought he could prevent it. It was only unfortunate that he went up against Deadpool.

His office hummed, a splint of light changing the color of his walls. Everett looked outside. It neared sunrise. Already, a faint, gold line of light shined out on the horizon, freshening the sky. No chirps yet. Give the birds another five minutes and Everett expected to walk out the door to a rising chorus.

And yet, no sign of Peter Parker. Nothing.

The license plates came up as a dead end. Deadpool must have dismantled and replaced the plates to avoid detection. They scoured surveillance cameras all over the five New York boroughs, but nothing. It was like the car vanished, along with the psychopath and the kid.

Drinking from his fourth cup of coffee, his cellphone rang again for the fiftieth time that day. Everett pulled away from this computer screen to glance at his phone. It was a text message. From Stark. He tapped his smartphone and inputted his passcode. The screen lit up and Everett opened the encoded text message.

_6423 Morning Time Lane, Clarksville, Maryland 21029_.

Morning Time Lane? Maryland? What the hell did Stark send him? It only took Everett a few seconds for the address to register in his mind. “Shit,” Everett cursed and scrambled out of his chair, barking for Sharon.

Sharon sprinted into the office, cheeks rosy. “What is it, boss?”

“Grab your gun,” Everett ordered as he threw his coat on. “We got a lead.”

* * *

“Are you sure about this, boss?” Sharon asked for the third time within the hour.

Yes. And no. Stark messaged him the address with no note. But, Everett interpreted it as Peter’s location. Curious, though, as to how Stark obtained this particular address, considering it was supposed to be an unknown location as far as the public was aware. All former CIA directors’ addresses and phone numbers were unattainable. And yet, Stark managed to prove their department that his intellect was above their own technological designs.

Everett sighed, staring straight ahead at 6423 Morning Time Lane. It was not a remarkable house by any means. Half brick and half siding, the front door was cover by a tall arch and it had a bay window, half shrouded by a massive bush. The lawn was neatly cut, groomed and pedicured, most likely by a professional. The double garage door was sealed and quiet. Just like the rest of the house.

Anyone walking by wouldn’t have taken even a second glance at the typical house structure. But the fact remained that this house was home to an important individual. This was the address of Thaddeus Ross, disgraced Secretary of State.

“Boss?” Sharon called to him again. “You want me to send in the cavalry?”

They already ordered a SWAT team to surround the house. All of them were ready to storm the house of their former boss. Some more reluctantly than others.

Everett took a deep breath and pulled out his gun. “On my call.”

He moved up the sidewalk, his feet stealthily making the way to the front door. It was closed and the blinds drawn over the windows to give Everett any advantage. It was now or never. If Peter was inside, he was in grave danger. Everett had to act and act fast.

He gave the signal. He backed away from the door and gave a hard kick. The door surrendered, breaking off its hinges as wood splintered off the doorframe. Everett stormed into the foyer, gun raised as he surveyed his surroundings. The house was dark. Quiet. Not in a good way.

Everett kept his gun trained and ready to fire. He slid across the wood floor. The beige colored walls were decorated with frames of Thaddeus’ past. Pictures of his late wife, absentee daughter and his military buddies when he was a younger lad with the same inflated ego. Shoes were placed in a small cubby beside the door and a stack of mail rested on an end table right below the stairs. Again, nothing strange. It almost made Everett reconsider the whole operation.

That was until he saw a shattered pottery with water staining the wood floor and flowers’ petals smashed and grinded by what Everett imagined was a boot. And if that wasn’t a sign, the droplets of blood that trailed down the hallway confirmed Everett’s fear.

“I got blood,” Everett whispered over his shoulder as he shined his flashlight on the blood. “Keep up your guard. First and foremost—find Peter.”

He didn’t wait for any confirmation on his commands. He followed the blood trail to the back of the house. The further Everett entered the house, the faster his heart hammered. Quietly stepping one foot in front of the other, he listened. Intensively. Praying to hear Peter’s voice. To at least confirm that the kid was alive. At this point, Everett would take any voice. The stillness and eerie quietness of the house chilled his spine and plagued his mind with dire images that he wished to never see in reality.

Everett got to the back end of the house and flashed his light into the small sitting room. It was a wreck. Furniture in disarray, shelves broken and books toppled to the floor, and a coffee table stood only on two legs, its contents spilling out all over the carpet. Everett moved his flashlight around the room, taking in what appeared to be the scene of a big fight. As he stepped further into the room, his light flashed on a face, squinting and bleeding.

Everett nearly jumped back upon sight. Thaddeus Ross sat in a chair, arms forced behind him that kept him secured in his place. His eyes were both swollen over. Bloody spit drooled from his slacked, jaw where bruises formed over his cheekbones. In fact, Thaddeus looked more purple than white. His face was smeared with congealed blood along with his pajamas that were an utter mess. Both kneecaps looked more like red caps, blasted away by a single, close-ranged bullet. If Everett wasn't standing in Thaddeus' house, he would never have recognized the bloody pulp as his former supervisor.

Thaddeus rolled his head around his shoulder, but his body remained limp against the restraints. He tried to speak. To say something to him, but his busted lips failed at the first syllable. Only more drooling blood dripped from his mouth.

Everett moved into the room to assist when he spotted another figure in the room. He halted. Over on the couch, laid a body as still as a brick. Everett edged closer and his heart plummeted. Thaddeus was long forgotten as Everett nearly jumped the coffee table to get to the couch where Peter Parker laid.

Everett crouched next to the couch. “Peter?”

At first glance, Peter looked lifeless. Too still for Everett to trust sight alone, even if there was a slight rise and fall of his chest. Purple welts, similar to Thaddeus’s mark-up, lined his eyebrows and carved up his cheekbone. His nose was crooked, broken by the look of it.

Everett placed two fingers on the boy’s neck, digging into the kid’s neck until he felt a pulse. His muscles slushed, knees collapsing to the floor as he blew out an air of relief. Peter wasn’t dead. Badly injured, but not dead. He simply slept underneath a blanket, a feathered pillow cushioning his head. A little bear was squeeze underneath his arm, almost like he was a child rather than a teenager.

Everett paused. He took in Peter’s full appearance. Despite the battered scars on his face, Peter looked… well, he looked well-cared. Tucked in, teddy bear, and a small bandage on his hand, someone took time to make him comfortable.

“Y-You…”

Everett turned to the throaty voice. Through his swollen eyes, Thaddeus glared at Everett, a frown twisting his face as he watched him care for Peter. “T-T… t-traitor!”

Everett didn’t say anything. He pressed his lips tight, matching Thaddeus’ own stare with his own. He only had time to focus on one person and Everett already showed his preference. Sharon and others arrived in the back, taking a look at the scene before them. She directed two agents to Thaddeus as she approached Everett.

“Medic is outside,” she said. “You want me to call them in?”

“Call them in for him,” Everett nudged his head in Thaddeus’s direction. He then bent down and, carefully, scooped Peter up in his arms. “I’m taking Peter.”

Peter was surprisingly light in his arms. He kept the blanket wrapped around Peter’s body and supported the kid’s neck, while also shadowing the face to keep it unrecognizable from any onlookers. The teddy bear slipped out of Peter’s grip, falling to the floor next to the couch.

Everett turned back to Sharon. “Keep this under wraps. I want nothing to reach the press. Got it?”

Sharon nodded. “Yes, boss,” she paused, eyes flickering down to Peter. “Is he okay?”

“I think so,” Everett observed Peter again. “Roughed up, but all right I think. Going to get him checked by the medic outside.”

He left crime scene, carrying an unconscious Peter with him. He moved through the team of agents that swarmed the inside of the house, parting aside to let their new boss through the crowd. Everett kept Peter close to his chest and when he got outside, double-checked to ensure Peter’s identity was hidden from view. No need for the press to get word that Peter was found inside Thaddeus Ross’s house.

As he made his way across the lawn to the parked ambulance, Everett felt a stir in his arms. He glanced down to find Peter rolling his head up, a slither of brown peeking out of those half-hooded eyes. The kid’s face scrunched up in bafflement.

“A-Agent… Ross?” croaked Peter.

“Yeah, hang in there, kid,” Everett murmured. “I got you. You’re safe.”

He didn’t know if Peter understood what he said. The kid slowly blinked before his eyes rolled back and he went limp again in his arms. Peter most likely suffered from a concussion.

The EMT doctors jumped out of the back of the ambulance. Dressed in complete scrubs and rushing around like they do in the films, they took Peter from Everett’s arms and laid him on the gurney. They were strapping him in, checking his vitals as they stripped away the blanket as they loaded him into the ambulance.

Everett hopped into the ambulance, sidling on the bench next to Peter’s gurney. As the medics worked on setting up an IV and determining what to do about his broken nose, Everett took out his phone.

He dialed. It only took a few rings when a strained, wrecked voice answered. “Did you find him?” May’s voice came in like a broken violin. “Please tell me you found him. Everett—please…”

“I found him,” Everett stated. “I’m taking him to the hospital.”

* * *

Everett passed Peter a plastic cup of water. "There you go," he said as Peter took the water and drank. "Feel better?"

Peter lowered the now empty cup of water and sighed back into his cushioned hospital cot. "Yeah, a lot better," he sighed in relief. "Thanks."

“Anytime.”

Peter came to fifteen minutes ago. Peter's old, raggedy clothes were replaced with a hospital gown. His nose had a splint and bandage to keep in situated. An IV latched in Peter's veins, pumping him with saline. Most of his bruises were already beginning to fade, the hue of his skin turned yellow along the edges of the purple welts. The real matter of concern, according to the doctors, was the bullet wound that someone stitched up with household thread and needle. They reopened the wound, examining and cleaning it before they stitched it back up. Still, they weren't quite sure how infected it got, and recommended an overnight stay.

Peter put the cup on his tray. "How long was I out?"

“I'm not sure," Everett answered. "Found you about hour ago. Head still okay?”

Peter nodded. "Yeah," he went silent for a minute. "Um, what about... is General Ross… is he okay? He isn’t—"

“He's not dead. Injured, but not dead.”

And that released all the tension built up in Peter's shoulders. They fell in one swoop as Peter deeply sighed. "Thank god," he uttered, his skin smoothing on his forehead. "I was worried. I thought..."

Peter fell into ruminating silence, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. He steadied his breathing. "It's been a long night."

A terribly long night, Everett silently agreed. He looked to the clock. It was near seven in the morning now. The others should arrive soon. 

Peter’s muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his eye. His lips molded into a strained grimace. His eyes kept flicking to the door, each squeak making Peter flinch his head up. When the next batch of voices moved pass down the hallway, Peter dropped his head back on the pillow.

“My aunt is going to freak.”

That and more, Everett thought. “She’ll be more relieved you’re alive and safe.”

Peter picked the ends of the blanket. “Yeah, but… I promised to not do that again,” he murmured. “Disappearing like that. I don’t… I don’t want to cause her anymore problems.”

“You didn’t,” Everett assured him. “And you’re not a problem, Peter.”

“I know.”

Everett doubted Peter’s assertion. There was no conviction in the kid’s statement. Only a sense of weariness as he scrunched up in his cot. A few hours ago, the boy suffered through a traumatic experience of horror that children should never witness. And yet, the kid acted if he was to blame for all the tragedies that occurred.

The poor kid took too much to heart.

Everett wanted to say more to Peter, but his chance ended when a fluttered of excitement sounded down the hallway from the room. Everett jumped to his feet. Sounded like a lot of people. More than necessary.

He gestured for Peter to stay down. The kid had rose up, sitting straight upon hearing the noise. “That’s Aunt May!”

Everett didn’t know how Peter could tell it was Aunt May. He barely distinguished any of the voices. It sounded like one, loud voice all together. Peter moved, brushing the blanket away from him.

“No—don’t get up,” Everett ordered. “Stay.”

“But—”

He gave a sharp look to Peter. It was the same expression back in Europe whenever Peter contradicted his orders. For a moment, he thought Peter was going to disobey him anyway, but Peter followed his commands and sunk back to his cot, pulling the blanket back over him.

Everett inched to the door. He hoped Peter was correct and that it was Aunt May. However, those loud sounds are also found in press conferences. If reporters discovered their whereabouts, it would be harder to shield Peter’s privacy from them at this location. Too many openings for the press to sneak in for a photo-op. He stood guard by the door, praying that the gaggle of people would continue on without even a glance to their door.

It grew louder. The commotion; right outside the door. Everett reached for his badge, ready to hold it up and block anyone’s attempt to get inside the room.

The doorknob turned. Everett strode over to slam it close when it burst open. A brilliant scarlet stood over the threshold. " _Peter_!"

May Parker rushed to Peter, enveloping her nephew with her arms. Her long, red hair curtained over Peter’s face as she held him. Her eyes, beautiful, haunting and glossy as she openly wept with joy, the tears rolling down her cheeks and into Peter’s hair. A flutter of murmured words followed in that moment of reunion.

“Oh thank god! Thank god!  _Peter!_ ” May breathed, somewhat shaky and wetly. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m fine, Aunt May,” Peter reassured his aunt, his voice a bit muffled through the embrace. “Really.”

Naturally, May didn’t believe him. She pulled away, brushing her hair back to get a better look at her nephew. It took less than a second to hear her sharply inhale at the sight of Peter’s battered face. “Oh god! You’re hurt! Your nose,” she gasped. “He broke your nose?”

Peter repentantly shrugged. “He got in a few good punches,” he muttered. “But, really, Aunt May. I’m fine. I looked a lot worse earlier.”

Everett groaned inward. That was not what any parent wanted to hear. Including May.

Her face fixed in a taut expression. She huffed, fingers digging into her own arms as bridled in her frustration. “I’m going to hunt down that asshole and kill him myself for even laying a hand on you,” she avowed. “To hurt a kid! My kid! Oh no. No, no, no.”

“Aunt May… don’t,” Peter desperately pleaded to his aunt. Probably not wanting her to ever confront Deadpool. “Look—I’m fine. The doctors here assured me that I’m going to live and my healing power is really speeding up my process. You see… look!”

Everett checked where Peter pointed. Sure enough, the small bruise around his elbow was almost entirely gone. “See?” Peter said to his aunt. “I’m fine. I’m okay. I promise.”

May’s eyes flipped from Peter’s elbow to Everett’s face, searching for confirmation from him. Everett communicated his thought with a tight smile and half-shrug. May nodded once, understanding the silent communication.

She turned back to Peter, brushing back his hair from his forehead. “Peter Benjamin Parker—you’re one lucky boy,” she said, brushing some gunk away from her eyes. “I was so scared. I thought I lost you again.”

“You didn’t,” Peter said. “I’m right here.”

They embraced each other again and Everett began to make his way to the door. He already intruded enough on their private reunion. No need to linger. As he headed to the door, it opened again. Captain America's tall frame ducked into the room. He gave a small smile in Peter's and May's direction before walking further into the room to let the rest of the team entry. Sam followed Captain America, then Wanda and Vision, and last, Black Widow. Unlike the others, who chose to stay up against the wall to give May and Peter some sense of privacy, Black Widow joined May next to the hospital bed. 

“Hey, sport," Black Widow addressed Peter. "How you feeling?”

“Okay," Peter claimed. "My healing is kicking in, so it's only a dull ache.”

Black Widow smiled, but Everett noticed the manner in which her eyes studied Peter's face and body language. "You got us all in quite a fright," she said. "Never seen a bunch of grown-up men running around screaming their heads off.”

That got her a snort from Peter. “Yeah, well, I have that effect on people.”

"Looks like you took quite a beating, son," Captain America noted, observing the kid from his place near the wall. 

"You should see the other guy.”

Captain America quietly winced. “I don’t think I want to.”

Peter’s eyes roamed around the room, taking a view of all his visitors. “I can’t believe you guys all came,” he said, surprised. “You do know I’m not dying, right?”

“You got us worried,” Black Widow responded on their behalf. “Not every day does one of our own not make it back home. Had to come find you. All of us.”

Peter rolled his lips in, eyes cast downward in guilt. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to freak you guys out or anything…”

May rubbed Peter’s back in a comforting circle. “We know, Peter,” she said. “We’re just glad you’re back with us.”

The kid nodded, a little smile lifting his spirits at seeing all the support. But, this his eyebrows fell into a puzzling stare. “How did you guys find me, anyway?”

A question that Everett was curious to learn the answer as well. He looked to May first, but she merely glanced to the others in the room. It appeared even she didn’t know how they located her nephew.

Vision hummed, floating a bit close the ceiling as he moved closer to the hospital cot. “We were not the ones responsible in locating you,” he confessed. “It was another.”

“Clint found you,” Black Widow interpreted Vision’s vague answer. “He called Stark and told him the address. He found you. As to how, we aren’t quite sure.”

Peter scrunched his face in a perplexed manner. “Hawkeye?” he uttered, craning his head to see if the famous archer was in the room. He was not present. “Where is he?”

“Back home,” Black Widow said. “He already knows that we found you.”

Peter tried to look happy through his crestfallen fatigue. “Oh… what about—”

His question was interrupted by a knock at the door. A second later, a doctor popped into the room. Dressed in white lab coat, scrubs and ready with a tablet, she entered the room and went directly to May, squeezing Black Widow out of the way.

“You must be Peter's guardian," the doctor shook May’s hand. "I'm Dr. Ellis. I was the attending on duty for Mr. Parker.”

“Oh—hi! Great, thank you so much for treating him," May said, pulling Peter to her side. "What can you tell me? Is he gonna be fine?”

The doctor hesitated as she conspicuously glanced to the Avengers in the room. Plus Everett. "Um, I'll be happy to speak to you about Peter's diagnosis in a more… private setting."

May waved off the invitation. "No, it's okay. They're basically family now," she encouraged the doctor to speak. "So—how’s he doing? Will he be able to come home today?"

Dr. Ellis looked down at her screen, scanning the notes inputted on the tablet. "He's doing well, all things considered," she started. "His healing capabilities are working wonders for him. Overall, Mr. Parker suffered from a minor concussion, so it is highly suggested he be monitored the next twenty-four hours. A bit dehydrated, but hopefully the saline is clearing that up. Some bruising. Broken nose. Oh—and we reopened the bullet wound—"

_"Bullet_   _wound_!" May shrieked, spinning to look right at Peter. "You said you were fine!"

“I am!" Peter insisted, flustered that his secret was revealed. ”It’s already healing. I don’t even feel a thing.”

Everyone in the room suddenly went from relaxed to alert in seconds. Captain America, Sam Wilson, Vision and Wanda all scuttled closer to the bed, eyes searching a bleeding wound over the boy. Faces paling and lips all pressed in a firm line to keep the distraught at bay.

Black Widow came back to the bedside. “Where’s the wound?” she asked.

“It’s fine, Nat,” Peter swore. “Really. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” May dangerously repeated, brows steeped over her livid eyes. “Peter Benjamin Parker! I don’t care! You got shot! I want to know if my kid got shot.” She sucked in a breath. “Where? Where did he shoot you?”

Peter gestured to his injured side. “But I’m fine, Aunt May—”

“Better quit saying that, squirt,” Sam Wilson spoke up, arms crossed as he shook his head. “It’s not helping you.”

May looked back to the doctor. “How bad is it? Will he heal all right? I mean, I know he has healing powers, but a bullet...”

Dr. Ellis stared blankly. She had no idea. That was obvious. Then again, Everett couldn’t say he knew either. How fast was Peter’s healing factor when it came to serious injuries like a bullet wound?

“Oh, um, I’m not… we don’t deal with a lot of, um,” Dr. Ellis nervously looked at all the Avengers in the room, “with  _their kind_  at this hospital, so we can’t give an exact answer. But, we will do our best to ensure he receives all the require medicines and procedures to get him back on his feet while he stays here under our care.”

“That’s not necessary.”

No one heard the door open. It was almost as if Tony Stark appeared out of thin air. He hung by the door, hands deep in his trouser pockets. He looked hardly better than anyone else in the room with baggy eyes, rumpled clothes and hair tousled like fingers have gripped them constantly. Next to him was a Korean woman, sleek black hair tied in a bun and compassionate, yet focused mien that took in Peter’s full appearance.

Tony tilted his head in her direction. “Doctor Cho will take it from here.”

Peter perked up at seeing Stark in the room. “Hey! Mr. Stark.”

While Peter was happy, Dr. Ellis looked annoyed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” she said, tone clipped. “This isn’t Stark Industries. You don’t give orders around here. You don’t, nor does your doctor friend here, have any authorization to touch my patient.”

Tony nudged Dr. Cho, who handed Dr. Ellis a slip of paper. “This a confirmation of transfer of care, approved and signed by your supervisor Dr. Kowinski,” she said in a politer manner than Stark. “We also received permission to confiscate all of his medical files to preserve Mr. Parker’s privacy.”

Dr. Ellis balked at being jumped over her head. But, in matters of the law and legal documentation, she had no authority to deny them. Not that Peter would object to the transfer. He would probably feel better being at the Avengers compound than at the local hospital.

Dr. Ellis exchanged with Dr. Cho, who once again, showed her polite demeanor and thanked the other doctor for her services. But, it only irritated Dr. Ellis.

When Dr. Ellis left, downtrodden and muttering, Dr. Cho moved over to Peter with her own equipment. She spoke with Peter, asking him questions and doing a quick check-up that didn’t result in embarrassment. She even lifted a part of his gown to check on the bullet wound.

“They did fine stitch work,” Dr. Cho noted. “And already your body is healing. There might be a scar. When we get back to the compound, I can ensure that it heals without leaving one.” She straightened her back, examining his face. “Let me take off that splint. I don’t think you need it.”

She removed the splint on Peter’s nose. She carefully undid the bindings and slid the metal contraption off his face. Peter’s nose looked slightly red, but it was back to its normal structure and size.

“I think that healed nicely,” Dr. Cho noted. “You’ll probably still need to ice it. Make sure the swelling is down.” She threw the splint and bandages in the nearby trashcan. “Mr. Stark? I’m going to need to make a call to my team in New York. Have it ready for when Mr. Parker returns to the compound.

Stark obliged and Dr. Cho left the room without another explanation.

Peter’s eyes followed her, before darting back to Stark with hope. “Does that mean we’re leaving now?”

“Happy is making the arrangements,” Stark informed him. “Should be ready to go soon.”

Stark’s half-hooded eyes gravitated toward Peter, but then abruptly turned in another direction. He sauntered over to Everett and clasped his hand in a strong shake. “You did good,” he quipped. “Better than I expected.”

“Huh-uh,” Everett said, half-listening to Stark. He watched May dote on Peter, gently handling his chin to tilt his head to get better lightning on his fading bruises. “Job’s not done though. Still haven’t found _him_ yet.”

“We will,” Stark assured. “I won’t stop until that son of a bitch is rotting in the Raft.”

“Tony,” Captain America reprimanded, jerking his head toward Peter, who turned his gaze upon them. “Language.”

“You guys are talking about Deadpool, aren’t you?” Peter said, glancing between him and Stark.

Stark stumbled in his speech, switching back and forth on what to tell the kid. Black Widow beat him to the punch. “Don’t worry about Deadpool,” she told him. “He won’t bother you anymore.”

“I don’t know about that,” Peter said, his hand sliding over his wound like it reopened. “To be honest, I think he’s a bit obsessed with me.”

That got heads turning. They all expressed uncomfortable concern about the revelation. Stark, who avoided making long eye-contact with Peter, stared straight at the kid. “Why do you say that?”

Peter shrugged. “Because he kidnapped me to hang-out with him.”

“And shot you to stop you from leaving?” Sam guessed as he gestured to where Peter’s hand rested over the wound.

Peter moved his hand to his lap. “He didn’t shoot me,” he said. “That was the first kidnapper.”

For a split second, all of their confusion and worries were suspended. The shock of the latest news protected them until it shattered into tiny shards, picking them one by one. May was the first to react. With her brows moving high up her forehead, glasses sliding down her nose, she spoke in a quiet, but heavy voice.

“Did you say _first_ kidnapper?” May asked for clarification.

Peter nodded. “Yeah… he hijacked the car first and then Deadpool got involved,” he looked to the others around the room, perplexed at their dumbfounded expressions. “You guys didn’t know about this?”

They all gave their respective ‘no’ responses to his question.

“We thought only Deadpool was involved,” Wanda said, speaking for the first time in her heavy accent.

Everett walked back to the other side of Peter’s hospital bed. With another individual thrown into the mix, it was pertinent that Everett knew everything. “Peter—I want you to think carefully. Try to remember the best you can,” he said to the kid. “Who was the other kidnapper? Did you happen to see his face or how he spoke?”

Peter shook his head. “No, I-I didn’t see his face that well and he didn’t talk. Deadpool did most of the talking.”

Naturally. “Okay, is there anything else you may remember, then?” Everett asked. “A smell? Accent?”

“Yeah, kid,” Stark said, siding up next to Everett. “Do you remember anything?”

Peter dropped his chin, lips pursed in thought. “I think his name was Lenny… or maybe Lester. Something with an ‘L’,” he said. “But he went by the name of Bull’s Eye. That I definitely remember.”

“Bull’s Eye?” Everett repeated to make sure he heard correctly.

Peter nodded. “Yeah, it’s his made-up name,” he said. “Deadpool said he was a merc.”

“Deadpool said this?” Stark asked for confirmation.

Peter nodded again.

Everett sighed. He was completely at a loss of what occurred in Peter’s life the past twelve hours. These new surprises spun his head around too many times for him to be comfortable. “Okay, why don’t you tell us the whole story?” he suggested to Peter. He took out his cellphone, opening the record app. “From the beginning.”

So, Peter told them his riveting tale of what happened last night to now. He detailed Deadpool’s rescue, his battle with Bull’s Eye and how Bull’s Eye was the one who fired the bullet into Peter’s chest. Peter, however, was certain that the mercenary didn’t mean too (“He was trying to kill Deadpool and I was trying to stop someone from being killed.”). He explained how Deadpool saved his life by getting the bullet out and stitching him back up. Peter went on how Deadpool promised to take him back to the compound, but lied. Instead, they ended up at Ross’s home with Deadpool explaining that Ross was the real culprit, the man who sent Bull’s Eye after him.

“And then I tried to stop Deadpool from killing him,” Peter concluded his story. “We got into a fistfight and… to be honest, I don’t think that guy feels any pain. I broke both his hands, an ankle and slammed into a table, but he laughed it all off. Like all we were doing was playing around.”

Everett thought back to the time Deadpool ripped his hands right out of the handcuffs. Perhaps the kid had a point in regards to Deadpool’s pain tolerance. But, overall, Peter’s adventure sounded stressful and frightening. Everett admired the kid’s stoic and heroic mien he showed to everyone, but he wondered if the kid wasn’t the least bit scared and broken over the whole incident. He was kidnapped, involved in a hijack, drugged, beaten and shot. No one really comes out unscathed or unbothered by such an experience. Yet, despite the battered face to prove his ordeal, Peter looked completely content. Maybe because he was safe with his family.

He could not say the same for everyone else. May’s eyes enlarged, fixed on Peter. Her teeth sank deeper into her lower lip, hand squeezing Peter’s hand a bit tighter. Black Widow’s expression was stoic. Nothing. The warmth gone. Just a cold stare, but not directed at anyone in particular. Captain American and Sam Wilson shared bothered looks. Disgruntled and remorseful, as if it was their fault that everything that happened to Peter was their fault. Wanda looked on at Peter with pity and sympathy, as if she too understood the experience. Vision nodded along to the tale, but his lack of emotion didn’t mean he had no care. Just that he was trying to decipher the meaning of everything into a more logical explanation. At least, that was what Everett thought the AI was doing. He wasn’t certain how Vision worked entirely.

Tony Stark was the only person in the room that didn’t even look at Peter. His gaze was drawn to the floor, his arms crossed over his chest as he listened to Peter with a few hums and grunts. His expression was unreadable. A man who showed nothing. Not even a hint of compassion. When Peter ended his story, Tony spoke up first. “Sounded like you put up a hell of a fight, kid,” he complimented and he looked to Everett. “We need to locate this Bull’s Eye.”

“Did you not hear him?” Sam called from the back. “This Bull’s Eye guy is dead.”

“Still gotta find out his MO for kidnapping Peter,” Stark argued. “And to see if he really was working for Thaddeus Ross.”

“I already know why,” Peter said to him. “Deadpool told me.”

Everyone stiffened, drawing in a small breath. If Deadpool truly confessed to Peter about Osborn’s involvement, then they had a long talk ahead of them.

“Peter—what you need to know is that…” May started off, but Peter cut her short.

“It’s okay, Aunt May. I get it.”

May looked baffled. “You do?”

“Of course,” Peter said. “I mean, I should have realized that there will be people after me. People who think I’ll be useful to their cause, or think I’m dangerous and should be stopped, or in the case with Bull’s Eye, just want to ransom me off.” He exhaled deeply, scratching his arm. “Anyway, that’s why Bull’s Eye was after me. He wanted Mr. Stark to pay off my ransom. Figured I was prime for the taking since I didn’t have any other Avengers around me.”

Everett thought he heard a collective sigh. He too was relieved that Deadpool didn’t confess to Peter about Osborn’s involvement with the kid’s past and abilities. That would have been a sticky subject not yet to be discussed at a time like this.

“Well, from now on, we won’t make that mistake ever again,” Stark reassured Peter. “For starters, I don’t think I have the money to pay off such a high ransom.”

Peter stared quizzically at Stark’s attempt to joke on the serious matter.

“What about Bull’s Eye association with Ross?” Black Widow questioned, redirecting Peter’s attention to her. “Deadpool told you Thaddeus hired him.”

“That’s what Deadpool said, but he could have been lying,” Peter guessed. “He wasn’t exactly right in his head all the time. Anyway, Secretary Ross looked surprised when we showed up at his door. I don’t think he was expecting me at all. Besides, what would Secretary Ross kidnap me for?”

They were saved from an explanation when a light tap hit the door. Captain America grabbed the handle, cracked it open to take a peak. He must have trusted the other person, because he relaxed and opened the door fully. Agent Sharon Carter slipped into the room, still dressed in her bulletproof vest that she wore when entering Thaddeus’ home. She carried a full plastic grocery bag. She scanned the room, eyes lingering a little longer on Captain America, before finding him.

“Hey, boss,” Sharon approached Everett. “I got what you requested.” She pulled out a pair of pants, shirt and sweater. She looked over to Peter. “You think you can fit into these?”

She handed them to Peter, who looked them over. “Yeah, I think so,” Peter said. “Around my size.”

Sharon smiled. “Good,” she dropped the plastic bag on the side table. “I also brought you some food too. Thought you might be hungry.”

Peter lurched to the plastic bag, pulling it into his lap as he opened the contents of a container of Pringles. “Thank you!” he said, munching on the Pringles. “The last thing I ate was a Milky Way bar.” He dug further into the bag, pulling out a bag of almonds, Pop-Tarts and a Gatorade. His brows wrinkled in disgust at the Gatorade, tossing it to the side.

“What? You don’t like Gatorade?” teased Captain America.

Peter shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

Stark’s phone went off and he snapped it to his ear. He mumbled a few affirmative before hanging up. “That was Happy,” he told everyone. “Cars are waiting out back. Dr. Cho is with him too.” He slid the phone back into his pocket. “Kid? You better change into some clothes if you don’t want to walk out wearing that gown.”

“What about the people outside?” Wanda asked Stark, nervous. “People will notice.”

“Not to worry. I already took care of that.”

Everett’s brows furrowed. He looked back to the door and listened. He heard no sound. Nothing. Not even the soft scuffs of nurses’ shoes walking down the hall.

Stark certainly had his way of getting people to follow him.

Anyway, it was time for Everett to part from the group. He had another room to visit. “Agent Carter and I should go,” he said. “Let you guys get ready to head back to upstate New York.”

May picked her head up. “Wait… you’re not coming with us?”

Everett shook his head. “I have, um, another visitor I must see,” he explained, “and a few other things. But I’ll be back in New York soon enough. I think.”

May was an intelligent woman. She subtly nodded her head, demonstrating that she understood who he was about to visit. “Give him hell for me,” she said, to which Everett could only tease a smile in response.

Everett dipped his gaze to Peter. He gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze to Peter’s shoulder. The kid looked up to Everett, an appreciative smile appearing on his face. “Thank you, Agent Ross,” Peter said. “For getting me out of there and everything.”

“Seems like that’s what I always do when you’re around,” Everett joked and Peter’s eyes crinkled in humor at the memories of their month together. “But, you’re welcome. Now, you take it easy. Relax and heal. Stay out of trouble.”

“Will do.”

Everett said his goodbyes and waited on Sharon, who spoke a little to Captain America before joining him out in the empty hallway with the exception of two security men patrolling the corridor. Everett walked away, looking back at the door for a second before Sharon divulged right into a quick debrief as they made their way to their next visitor.

* * *

Everett entered the guarded room. It’s been a long time since he’d seen his former boss. Not counting from earlier that morning. It had been a few months ago when he helped push Secretary Ross out of power and watched the man be humiliated outside his own building. It was also when Everett showed his cards, somewhat. In either case, the firing of Secretary Ross and the promotion of Everett Ross didn’t end with amicable terms between them. So, Everett wasn’t surprised by the ugly glower or sneers at his direction. Not that Secretary Ross looked intimidating at the moment.

His face looked like a mashed grape and his body took on the appearance of a mummy with all the white linen casting on his arms, legs and chest. The former Secretary of State laid, incapacitated by his injuries on a lumpy cot in a dimly lit hospital room. The curtains were drawn, not trace of outside to be seen.

Everett took a seat at the end of the hospital bed. He had a notepad in his lap and a recorder in his hand. Basic materials for a brief interrogation.

Everett took a steady breath. He didn’t want to be in the room. He wished another agent did the task of interviewing Thaddeus Ross, but it was his duty to do so. He didn’t like it, but it needed to be done.

“Mr. Ross,” Everett began, “I’m sure you are aware of the procedure when interviewing—”

His words were cut off by harsh chuckles. “That’s it? You take my job and business as usual?”

Everett folded his hands together. “It is.”

“How long have you been Stark’s bitch?” Ross questioned. “Three months? Seven months? A year?”

“I’m no one’s man,” Everett stated. “I do my job.”

“And it required you to betray your general?”

“It required me to uphold the laws and principles of this country,” Everett countered. “Not one man.”

Thaddeus Ross let out another throaty chuckle. “Funny. I said the same thing.”

Everett believed he did believe that what he was doing was for the good of the country. “Every person says it,” he said. “Only a few ever mean it.”

He took the recorder and clicked the button. The tape began to move. “My name is Everett K. Ross, I’m with the CIA and head of the Enhanced Human Unit,” he began, speaking clearly in the recorder. “Please give your name, address, description and occupation in a loud voice.”

The former Secretary of State scoffed. “What is this? What are you trying to pull?” he growled. “I’m the victim here! I was attacked!”

“Sir, we are just trying to get a statement,” Everett calmly replied. “There’s no need to be agitated. We have yet to press any charges—”

“I’ll be pressing charges!” Thaddeus snarled. “On both of them! The lunatic and Spider-man! I want them arrested! They attacked me! They barged right into my house and attacked me!’

Everett sucked in a deep breath. He could do this. Just needed a single statement. “Sir? Please just state your name, address, description and occupation,” he tried again. “Then you may give a full statement of what occurred in your house.”

“Fuck you, Everett!” Thaddeus snapped at him. “What? You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do? You have been stabbing me in the back this whole time! Working against us. I saw how you treated that Spider-kid. You care for him.

“Let me guess… your trip to Wakanda early this year had nothing to do with Wakanda, right?” Thaddeus grilled into Everett. “You were protecting him, weren’t you? That kid? That… freak! That’s what you were doing, wasn’t it? And Agent Carter was helping you. Wasn’t she? Yeah—I didn’t trust that girl. I did trust you though. Should have guessed that one of my own would betray me.”

Everett squeezed his pen a little too tight. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ross,” he said through clenched teeth, trying his best to keep his tone leveled. “I am not at liberty to speak about work business with civilians. Please, state your name, address, descry—”

“Not at liberty?!” Thaddeus roared, his face turning dark. Almost to a crimson color. “I brought that division up with my bare hands! I made it the elite squad it is today! And you go off telling me that you’re not at liberty to talk about the very thing I created? I sacrificed my entire life to this country and you—damn you, Everett! You and your comrades will bring this country to hell!

“Take that as my statement!” Thaddeus raged on. “Record that I know you and Iron Man and Captain America and, especially Spider-Man, will bring this country to ruin! This country could have been great! I could have made it great! So, you write that! And write that I’ll being charging Spider-ass with a felony. Along with his pal too! Did you get all that, Everett?”

Thaddeus finished with a slurred sneer. Everett stared, shoulders drooped in exasperating disappointment. He should have expected that Thaddeus Ross would be uncooperative. Their quick interaction at his house already demonstrated Thaddeus’ animosity of him. Still, Everett would have thought Thaddeus would cooperate with an investigation regarding himself. Apparently, the vengeance has yet to be gratified.

Everett stopped the recording. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ross,” he said, getting up from his chair. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they are, but I have no regrets. I did my job to the full extent. I take my oath seriously. And while you and I have different thoughts on what it means to be patriotic, we both did what we had to do. Doesn’t mean I don’t respect you… well, at least, I used to respect you. Not anymore.”

Everett marched to the hospital door, turning his back to the smoldering carcass of a former general. “Oh, before I forget,” Everett turned once more back to Thaddeus, “this is a criminal investigation. You are not allowed to discuss what occurred with anyone other than the initial investigators. You may tell your attending doctor what caused your injuries, but nothing more. You are not to leave the county and you must be available at all times. You also have a right to attorney—”

Thaddeus Ross blinked, brows crinkling in disgruntlement. “Wait a minute… are you charging me with a crime?”

“Not yet,” Everett replied. “But, you did have a kidnapped boy in your house. It’s not looking too good for you right now. So… I figured I should warn you now before you make a regrettable mistake.” Everett opened the door, a police guard stood at attention, saluting him. “Get well soon, Mr. Ross. I’m sure you would prefer not to be rolled into court.”

Everett closed the door as Thaddeus threw accusations and slurs at him. Everett didn’t hear a thing. He walked on, meeting up with Sharon at the end of the corridor.

Sharon, arms behind her back, rocked on her feet with anticipation. “How did it go?” she asked.

“As good as it could go, I guess,” Everett said as they walked away from Thaddeus’ guarded room. “Still mad.”

“Figures,” Sharon said, walking side-by-side with Everett. “You know, I never liked him anyway. He always tried to belittle me.”

“It’s mutual for him too,” Everett remarked to which Sharon smiled, happy to learn she was a pain in the ass to Thaddeus too. “Did the agents find anything after I left the house?”

And Sharon’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid not, boss,” she admitted. “We searched the place, but came up empty handed. Nothing involving Peter Parker was found in his house, except Peter Parker himself.”

Everett curled his nose in disbelief confusion. “But, then why did Deadpool bring Peter all the way out there? Peter said that Deadpool claimed Thaddeus was partners with Bull’s Eye.”

Sharon looked lost. “Bull’s Eye, boss? Who’s that?”

Then Everett remembered that Sharon missed Peter’s statement. “It’s a long story, but Peter partook in two kidnappings last night.”

“What?”

“I know,” Everett said as they reached the hospital doors that led them out to the parking lot. “Apparently, Thaddeus had some kind of involvement with the first kidnapper, but… I don’t know. Peter said there was a chance Deadpool was lying,” he said. “Apparently, he’s not exactly sane.”

“From what you told me about him,” Sharon said, cringing at her ruminations of what Everett told her about Deadpool. “He probably isn’t. So… what? Why would Deadpool bring Peter to Thaddeus if there was no link to the kidnapper? I… how did Deadpool even find Thaddeus’ home address in the first place?”

“Exactly,” Everett said, heading to the car Sharon unlocked. He stopped and looked across the hood to her. “There’s something else happening. Some reason, Deadpool is one step ahead of us. He knows something.”

“And we gotta figure out what that is.”

Everett bobbed his head in agreement. “Let’s go back to Thaddeus’ house,” he told her. “I want to take a look of the place myself.”

“Really? But our team swept it.”

“Not with my eyes,” Everett said, tapping on the hood of the car. “Okay, let’s go. There’s gotta be something there. Something they missed.”

Sharon obliged her boss and got into the car. She revved up the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading in the direction of the crime scene. Everett gazed out the window, making a list of all the evidence he knows and trying to tie them all together. Deadpool probably had a million reasons why he took Peter to Thaddeus’ house, but only one reason truly mattered. Deadpool didn’t beat the crap out of Thaddeus for fun while Peter laid unconscious. Deadpool wanted something.

Perhaps he even got it?

Well then… shit.


	18. Clint Barton

Clint balanced Nathaniel on his hips, humming a tune as he swayed around the living room. He shelved the children's books Lila left out last night and moving Cooper's basketball bag off to the side. Laura was upstairs, taking a shower. An easy morning before the chaos began once the children wake for school.

Nathaniel clapped, matching to Clint's tune. He babbled along, trying to match the words to his father's song. Clint laughed a little. Sometimes, it's the smallest things that make a father's life.

The phone rang.

Clint stopped singing.

The phone rang again.

Clint paused.

_Ring! Ring! Ring!_

It was his phone. Clint took it out and read the screen. Unknown number.

He moved to the kitchen. He settled Nathaniel into his highchair. He held the phone in his hand. It was still ringing.

Clint took a breath. He answered. "Who is this?"

" _Hi-diddly-ho neighbor_!" came a singsong intone that iced over Clint's veins.

All of Clint's muscles reacted, his hand itching to where his bow normally would be. All he got was air. He gripped his fist, nails biting into his palm.

"Wade Wilson," Clint answered like he said a curse. "How the hell did you get this number?"

" _Oh! A mutual friend shared it with me_ ," Deadpool informed him. " _So—how are you doing? How's your life? Your wife? Your family? And all those typical suburban nosey questions."_

Clint clenched his teeth. " _How did you get this number_?"

" _Are you deaf? I told you, silly! From a mutual friend_."

"We don't have any mutual friends. So, I'm going to ask again," Clint's voice deepened to a low growl. "How the hell did you get this number?"

" _Alright! Alright! Don't need to go all Batman on me_ ," Deadpool said. " _The reason for this call is because I_   _honestly don't like those dweeb friends of yours. Any of them. You need to make some better ones."_

"Is this why you are calling me?"

" _No—I'm calling because I have something the others are probably looking for at this very moment_."

Clint raised his brows. "Still listening for the explanation."

" _I have Baby Spidey_."

Paralysis spread through his body, like frost overcoming a fallen leaf. Jaw tight. His breathing dropped from light and free to a deep and shallow pattern.  _Boom. Boom. Boom._  Each heart beat resounded in his ear, sounding like explosives in his chest. His stomach knotted and his thoughts saw blood red with black and white eyes staring out of the dark.

"If you so much as lay a hand on him—" Clint began to growl.

" _Hold your arrows there, Robin Hood_ ," Deadpool's voice mocked him. " _He's fine. Really! Wait..._ " Dreaded silence occupied the long pause. " _Yep, he's still alive. You want him?"_

Clint's voice thundered, itching to grab his bow. "Leave him alone! He's just a kid!"

" _I have eyes! I know he's a kid. And, just to let you know, I saved his baby ass."_

"I don't care! Knowing you, you were probably the reason he was in danger in the first place," Clint snapped back. "Now—where is he? What did you do to him?"

" _For fuck's sake! You're acting like I'm the bad guy here_ ," Deadpool stated, sounding hurt.

"You typically are."

" _Point taken, my good sir!_ " Deadpool exclaimed. " _But in this case, not so much. I really did save the kid's neck_." Deadpool's tone lowered, losing its charming façade. " _Now, if you want to come and get him, shut up and listen to me_."

Clint restrained a predatory growl. "Listening."

" _He's at 6423 Morning Time Lane, Clarksville, MD 21029_ ," Deadpool said in rapid cadence. " _Better come get him quick. You know… before everyone else in the country wakes up_."

Deadpool hung up. And Clint switched to Hawkeye.

He called Tony. Twice. No response. He switched to text messaging. He typed the address and sent. He wrote up a new text to Nat.  _Call me_.

With all his required messages sent, Hawkeye went out to the barn, where his workshop was set up. He took a hammer and smashed his phone into pieces. Once in pieces, he gathered the broken phone and returned to the house. Nathaniel watched his father move from the backdoor to the microwave. He threw the pieces in and timed five seconds. The microwave sparked and smoked. Phone completely destroyed.

Footsteps made their way down the stairs to the kitchen. Laura appeared, dressed and ready for the day. Her eyes questionably narrowed at the microwave and then to Clint. "Do I need to grab the bags?" she asked.

Clint shook his head. "No—not yet," he said. "A thing has come up though. I need to go."

Laura followed her husband to the living room. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing,"

Laura crossed her arms. "Clint—you promised."

Clint sighed. He didn't want to worry her. It was hard on her to watch the news swarm Peter, especially the video of him in the middle of the harbor. Laura fretted, always finding a reason to leave the room whenever the newscaster turned onto the subject of Peter. She confined to Clint one night that feared to wake up one morning to horrible news about Peter.

But he promised to be truthful to her. He told her of his missions, not in great detail, but enough to give her an idea of what he had to do. That way, she wouldn't be wondering for days if he didn't come home right away.

Laura liked to be in the known. "Clint…"

"Deadpool called," Clint said to her as he unlocked his storage. "He has Peter."

He grabbed his prepared duffel bag and pocketed a new phone. He closed the cabinet doors and turned back to Laura. She was stricken. Her arms fell to her side, mouth agape in silence. Dilatorily, she shook her head.

"No… that can't be true. He's with Stark! That's what you said," her voice quivered as she spoke. "He's with Stark…"

"So he was," Clint locked his storage cabinet. "I don't know if he or isn't, but Wade got my number somehow."

Laura trembled, hands rubbing her arms. "Clint—if Deadpool really has him… I-I…"

Clint walked over to his wife. "Nothing will happen to him," he said, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "I promise."

Laura leaned into his kiss, but he felt her rigid posture. No words comforted a mother when a child was in danger. Only physical proof ever cured their angsts.

"I need the truck," he said to her. "Will you be okay with the car or—"

Laura nodded, arms wrapped around her again. "Yeah, the car can still run. I'll drop it off at the mechanics after dropping the kids off at school," she said, gently patting her hand over Clint's heart. "You go. Take the truck."

He hated to leave his family in the middle like this. He thought being retired meant he never had to walk out on them at the last minute. Apparently, he was wrong. "Tell the kids I'll be home soon," he said, heading to the door. "I'll keep you updated."

Laura rubbed her nose, eyes a bit glossy. "Be careful!" she begged him. "Deadpool isn't sane. Who knows what he will do if you meet him again."

She was thinking about his first and last encounter with Deadpool. "I'll be careful," he promised to her. "I need to go."

Laura gave him a kiss goodbye and watched him walk out the front door. He threw his duffel in the back of the truck, hopping into the driver's seat. He pulled out, backing the truck up to drive down the dirt path when the front door swung open.

"Dad! Dad! Wait!"

Clint stepped on the brake as his son ran to his window. Clint rolled it down as Cooper got to the car. "Coop? What is it?"

"Where're you going?" his son asked.

"It's work related."

Cooper was old enough to know what that meant. "What's going on? Is the world in danger? What do you need me to do?"

Always trying to be supportive. Ever since Peter departed with Stark, Cooper took up the reins of wanting to do more to help his parents, including saving the world if need to be.

"Nothing," Clint said, smiling to his son to hide his worries. He didn't need Cooper to get worked up. "I need to assist on a small matter. Will be back in a couple of days."

Cooper bed-hair fluttered in the morning breeze that swooped down over the farm. He stood in his sleepwear, at full attention and yet slumped in tiredness. His gaze shifted from his father to his feet. "Does it have to do with Peter?"

Clint stayed silent for a few seconds. "It's nothing to worry about."

Cooper chewed the corner of his lip. He wished his son to quit that habit. "Is he all right?"

"He will be."

His son nodded, but without conviction. "Come back home, Dad."

"I will," he swore to him, looking over his son with a sad smile. He needed to go. "Be good to your mother. Study hard."

Cooper agreed with another nod, backing up from the truck as Clint lifted his foot off the brake. He drove away from the farm, driving in the direction to the airport. He glanced back in the rearview mirror and spotted Cooper standing on the porch steps. Laura came out too, pulling Cooper to her as they watched him drive away.

He turned off their driveway and onto the country roads. A phone rang out. Clint reached into his pocket and checked the screen. He answered immediately. "You got my message."

_"Stark has men heading straight to the address_ ," responded Nat. " _I'll let you know if they find Peter_."

"So… it's true then?" Clint said, hand on the wheel. "Peter was kidnapped? By Deadpool?"

" _That's what we know_ ," Nat answered. " _How did you hear about it? Is it in the news_?"

"No," he said. "Let me know when you find him."

He clicked off, knowing that Nat wouldn't take it offensively. He put both hands on the steering wheel and hit the accelerator.

* * *

For a top-secret, advanced technological compound with superheroes patrolling and residing inside, Clint slid into the main lobby with relative ease. Not even the guards glanced in his direction. Most were casually patrolling the corridors, talking to one another without a worry in the world. Why would they? The Avengers would take care of any security breach.

Except for Hawkeye.

Duffel in hand, he strolled down the corridor. He didn't miss a beat. He remained invisible to all around him, even in plain sight. He marched through the compound, heading straight to the destination he knew to find his main target.

As he got closer, he heard Stark's voice drifting down the corridor. He was talking to someone, arguing about something or another. Probably in regards to Peter.

Clint received Nat's word about Peter's recovery. Deadpool's word held up. They found Peter, unconscious at the house that belonged to Thaddeus Ross. He had some bruises on his face and body, and a bullet wound. Nothing fatal. That didn't make Clint any happier.

He got to the double doors where he heard Stark's voice loud and clear. He twisted the handle and pushed, the door relenting to his command. Clint found Colonel Rhodes standing on his robotic legs, arms crossed and frown severe. Leaning up against the sofa was Steve Rogers, dressed in dark jeans and navy shirt. Next to him was Sam, grey trousers and black shirt, expression exhausted.

Behind the bar, as he poured himself a drink, was Tony Stark. Frazzled, the genius billionaire looked anything like the composed figure he showed to the public. Anxiety rested below his eyes, his smirk and quick-witted remarks he threw at Captain Rogers. When Tony took a moment to drink, his strained eyes met Clint's, causing him to sputter into his drink.

"What the—how the hell did you get in here?" Stark demanded as everyone turned to see Clint striding into the room.

Clint went across the room. "I walked in."

Stark grumbled to that answer as he discarded his glass. "Great! That's what I want to hear after what happened last night. Lack of security and—"

Clint cut Stark of with a single, hard punch right into the side of his face. Clint's knuckles felt flesh and bone. Stark's head snapped to the side, hand immediately on his injured cheek as he somewhat twirled to stay balanced. All around them, Clint heard sudden intakes of breath with a few swear words.

Clint didn't care. The minute Stark recovered, Clint rang him the riot act. "I told you not to get Deadpool involved!" he reproved. "But what does the great Tony Stark do? He listens to no one and puts a kid in danger!"

Stark bristled. "Damn you—"

Clint yelled over Stark. "I repeatedly told you to stay away from Deadpool! I told you a thousand times!" he said, face red. "Shit, Stark! Now you put Peter on his radar? What the hell were you thinking?"

Someone put a hand on Clint's shoulder and pulled back. "Hey—easy, Barton," came Steve's calm voice. "Let's not—"

Clint shoved Steve's hand off him. "Don't Steve!" he warned. "Don't. I told you guys how crazy Deadpool was. I explicitly said to  _not_  get him involved."

"We didn't get him involved," Steve defended the group. "He did this all by himself. We did nothing to support his actions."

"The fact you confronted him and told him about Peter is enough!"

"We never said anything about Peter to him," Stark recovered from his hit. He straightened his back. He wiped his hand underneath his nostril. A trail of blood smeared on the back of his hand as blood trickled down from Stark's nose and dribbled over his chapped lips. "That son of a bitch figured it out on his own. He took matters into his own hands. We did nothing to encourage that megalomaniac."

Maybe not, but a simple interaction was all Deadpool needed to get interested. And once interested, it became a never-ending nightmare. They could have done more. To stop Deadpool. To protect Peter.

"Not good enough," Clint maintained.

"I know it's not good enough!"

Stark's words boomed overhead, reverberating along the walls and bouncing off the ceiling. There was the anger. His face went purple. From rage or from the punch, it was unknown. Anger flared behind those dark eyes, rising straight from his heart.

"I wasn't good enough!" Stark continued hotly. "I didn't do my job. I let him down. Okay? I failed him!"

Stark wordlessly smacked his palm against the counter. Clint saw that Stark's anger was nothing more than a shield. A protection against what really struck Stark to his core. Behind that raw rage was pain. A deep, self-hatred agony of one full of remorse and guilt. It kindled the grief and anger within the billionaire as he fixed his dark gaze onto Clint.

"I can barely look at the kid!" Stark shouted. "Seeing his face. All bruised and… I couldn't…" He stopped talking and turned away from Clint as he wiped his hands down his face. His expression dulled to exhaustion. "I don't need you to tell me that I fucked up."

He went back behind the bar. He pulled out a wet cloth and placed a few ice cubes in the middle. He wrapped it up and placed it on his swelling nose. "If you came all this way to punch me in my face, then you can go now."

If only, Clint thought. It wouldn't go past him to do such a thing. Yet, that was not the case for his appearance at the compound.

"I can't," he scowled. "Someone has to clean up your mess."

"We're working on that," Colonel Rhodes said. "Agent Ross is keeping the investigation quiet. We have guards posted at the hospital. All recordings of the incident have been confiscated."

"That's not what I was referring to."

Clint picked up his duffel from the floor, swinging it over his shoulder. Without further explanation, he marched back to the doors he entered not too long ago. He heard questioning murmurs behind his back and a fluttered of boots chasing after him.

"Clint!" Steve's voice rang out. "I'll come with you."

"No need."

"Clint—it's not a good idea to go after that guy alone," Steve argued. "Let me and Sam come with you."

Clint stopped. He turned and faced Steve and the others. "Don't worry, Cap," he said. "I can handle Deadpool on my own just fine. Besides, this is a one man mission. Any more than that, it becomes a shit show."

He grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. "I'll be back before you will even miss me."

* * *

Clint didn't leave right away. He took the elevator and ordered FRIDAY to drop him off at the medical bay. That was where he figured Peter would be. He wasn't wrong.

He found Peter with his aunt in one of the many rooms available. When he tapped on the door, Peter was stoked. He beamed at Clint, acting as if the faded bruises were nothing but face paint. The red haired woman got up from her chair to greet him.

"Hi! Are you—"

"Clint Barton," he introduced himself as he took her hand for a shake. "Also known as Hawkeye. You must be the famous Aunt May."

Aunt May pushed up her round glasses. Her eyelids drooped, hair pulled in a loose ponytail and she wore a baggy sweater that almost acted like a blanket for her. She offered a quick smile to him.

"Heard so much about you as well," Aunt May returned. She quickly looked back to Peter. "Hey… I'm going to go back to the apartment and get you those books. You need anything else?"

Peter shook his head. Aunt May bent down and kissed him on top of the head, whispering a promise to return soon. She thanked Clint as she squeezed passed him, allowing Clint and Peter some privacy to talk.

Once the door closed, Clint took the chair Aunt May occupied moment ago and spun it around to face Peter's bed. Before Clint even sat in the chair, Peter went straight into conversation.

"How are you? How's Laura and the kids? Did Cooper pass his science test?" Peter rattled off, trying to learn of news back home rather than talk about his own experience.

Clint obliged at the moment. "Laura's good. Misses you. As do the kids. Lila especially," he added. "As for Cooper, he wouldn't be on his basketball team if you haven't helped him study."

"He got an A?"

"He got an A," Clint confirmed to which Peter smiled in return. "Thanks to you."

"Nah—Coop is a smart kid. He knew it all," Peter argued. "Just needed a confidence boost."

"Huh-uh," Clint said, knowing perfectly well that Cooper didn't have a scientific mind. No matter how many times he reads his science textbook. "Now that we got all caught up with my life… what about you?"

Peter lightly snorted. "Don't you watch the news? It's all there."

"You know how I feel about the news," Clint said. "They all have some angle. And they don't always know the truth."

Peter nodded along in agreement. "Yeah, my life's been good," he responded. "Not what I expected, but it's good."

"Yeah?" Clint repeated as Peter nodded, but he noticed it wasn't with much conviction. Clint leaned forward, arms rested on his knees. "Seriously, kid, how're you holding up? Your bruises look like they are healing nice."

Peter tenderly touched his bruised cheek. "Yeah. A bit."

"What about the bullet wound?"

Peter lifted his gown up to show the wound. Clint saw nothing. "Dr. Cho used some kind or regeneration tool on it," Peter explained. "Since I have a healing factor, she only did a little small section of grafting in order to avoid having a scar."

"I had that done once too," Clint said. "Got blasted on my side and they had to redo the whole skin. Looked exactly the same. Technology these days, huh?"

Peter smiled as he rolled the gown back down. "It's impressive," he concurred. "But unfortunately, they don't always trust the results. Do you know they're making me stay overnight?"

"Good thinking," Clint agreed with everyone's decision. "You had a concussion. They're looking after you. It's a doctor's thing. Better to be safe than sorry."

Peter shrugged, squirming in his bed. "Yeah, well, I'm tired of people crowding around me and asking the same questions over and over again," he said with a drained sigh. "They're being too overprotective. I'm fine. No harm. No foul.

Clint twitched a dubious eyebrow up. "Uh-huh…" he reexamined the kid, closely. "You know, Deadpool isn't an easy character to be around. In fact, he's quite a handful."

Peter snapped his eyes to Clint, widening. "You know Deadpool?"

Clint nodded. "Oh yeah. Met him years ago while I worked as a SHIELD agent," he said, remembering his encounter with Deadpool at a bar. "He's a hard man to forget."

"You can say that again," Peter agreed, but Clint noticed the smallest goose-bumps on the kid's arms. "I think he's insane."

"That's a nice way of describing it."

Peter shifted in his bed and shrugged. "Yeah. I guess," he said scratching his wrist. "How did you meet him?"

"My director assigned me to him," Clint explained. "I was to analyze his possibility as a candidate for the Avengers' team."

It was Peter's turn to cock his eyebrows in skepticism. "Really? An Avenger?"

Clint shamefully nodded. "Yeah, it took me only three minutes to decide he's not a suitable candidate. Hell, he's not even suitable for his own powers," he remarked. "But, I somehow managed to stay with him for three days tracking down a drug trafficker. Worst three days of my life."

"Really?"

"Oh—yeah," Clint said, remembering those very long days that seemed endless. "There were times I really wanted to shoot him in the head with an arrow, but… that wouldn't have done me any good."

"Why not?"

"Because he can't die unless you blow him up to bits," Clint explained, learning that tidbit in the first ten minutes of meeting him. "He's got this healing factor that makes it impossible for him to die." He watched Peter's eyes flare into understanding. There was a nervous twitch in his face. "I'm guessing you witnessed his ability to come off an injury?"

Peter's mouth tightened, but he gave a curt nod. "Yeah… explains a lot."

Clint noticed Peter's fingers fiddling with the ends of his blanket. Clutched and unclutched. "You know," Clint started again, trying to draw Peter's attention, "It's okay to be afraid."

Peter hid behind a nonchalant expression. "I know."

"I know you know," Clint imagined Peter's heard the phrase before in his life, "but I want you to  _believe_  it. No one will think less of you if you're afraid."

Peter slouched in his cot, throwing his head back on the pillow. "Not you too," he whined. "I'm fine! Really. A thousand times fine."

He didn't look fine. Peter looked cold. Shivers appeared on the kid's arms. His ashen face stayed nonchalant, but his eyes were too focused on anything and everything. Even his hands started to shake.

"Peter—"

"I get it! Okay? Stop telling me!" Peter snapped, hands balled in fists. "Stop asking me if I'm fine. Stop telling me everything is going to be okay. Stop telling me that I'm safe! Okay? Just…  _stop_! Can't people just… can't people just leave me alone?!"

Peter yanked up his covers and threw them over himself, abruptly flipping over to his side so that his back faced Clint. His outburst quieted the room. A stifling of tension filtered in the thick, stale air, inhaled deeply by Peter's simmering frustration.

Clint sat quite still. He hardly flinched at Peter's outburst. In fact, he expected it. He waited a little longer, keeping vigilant on Peter as the boy remained silent, but awake. Once Clint deemed it an acceptable time for Peter to regroup, he slid from his seat and sat on the edge of the cot. He looked over Peter. The boy stared straight at the wall. Not blinking.

Peter struggled to breathe, his breaths catching. "Why did he shoot him?"

Clint knew who he referred to. He laid a hand on Peter's shoulder.

Peter trembled. "He just shot off his knees," he continued on, his voice toneless. "Didn't even care. He… laughed."

Sounded exactly like Deadpool.

Peter twisted his neck. He stared up at Clint, eyes haunted and wet. "Why did he shoot him, Clint?" he asked, voice cracked. "Why did he shoot?"

Clint had no answer. Nothing to settle the boy's unwinding nerves. All he could offer was sympathy. Clint took Peter in a hug. The kid didn't resist. Peter kept spluttering, asking the same question over and over until the ripping of sobs drowned out his words and he shook in Clint's arms, crying into his shoulder.

Clint wrapped both arms around Peter. He didn't say a single word. His strong arms secured him in an embrace, holding him in the same way he held Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel whenever they were in distress. Peter's finger clawed into the back of Clint's jacket as if afraid to lose the pillar of support.

He had no need to worry about that. Clint planned to stay as his pillar until Peter no longer needed him. He let his shirt and jacket get covered in tears and snot, all the while thinking of his own revenge plan against Deadpool.

* * *

The studio apartment was what Clint pictured. Second-hand furniture cramped in a little room with an old sofa being the boundary line between bedroom and kitchen. Pop art covered up the exposed brick and the blue shelving unit was filled with snacks rather than food like Pop-tarts, popcorn and a little Buddha figurine.

Clint sat in the dark, relaxing with his bow on his lap as he glanced out the dusky and empty street. Monitored, Clint looked to the nightstand, spying a framed picture of Wade Wilson before his tragedy, with his arms wrapped around a black-haired beauty. He knew about Vanessa and figured she must be somewhat troubled herself to be able to live with a man like Deadpool on a daily basis.

The wait lasted about fifteen minutes before Clint recognized the sound of keys jingling and a lock clicking. The knob turned. Door cracking open as a stream of light from the hallway seeped into the kitchen.

Clint leapt to his feet. Bow in hand and arrow at the ready. He did not hesitate. He fired, the arrow whistling its doom. It struck. Hard. It pinned his adversary against the wall, trapped and unable to move.

The lights flickered on and Clint saw his arrow hit true. Right in the heart. And Deadpool, forgoing his costumed identity for a more casual civilian appearance, gaped at the arrow with impressionable awe.

"Ow! Shot through the heart!" Deadpool looked up from the arrow to Clint. "You give love a bad name, Cupid."

The small light emitted from a single bulb glazed the man's burned face in a shine that made Deadpool's face appeared waxed. He looked as ugly as the last time Clint saw him. Scarred and burned. A relative of Freddy Kruger. Only, Deadpool was real.

Deadpool wiggled to get the arrow out of him. But it remained stuck, embedded too deep into the wall behind him to yank out. Deadpool stopped. "What? Does this mean we're soulmates, now?"

Clint shook his head. "Nope. Means you're a pain in the ass."

"And yet you came all this way to see me," Deadpool said, fluttering his eyelashes at him. He stretched his hand out to Clint, trying to cup his cheek. "Sounds like love to me."

"Still living in your own, twisted reality," Clint grunted. "Typical."

"Like your reality is better?" Deadpool retorted, face contorted to one of contempt. "Listen, Legolas! At least I get to be the star of my reality. Not some side character who can't even get their own film."

Clint sighed, shaking his head. Still the same Deadpool he met years ago. Obnoxious and insane. He relaxed his bow, compacting it back to its original formation. "Let's carry on with business, shall we?"

"Oooh! Now you want to team up together, huh? Heard about my partnership with the Avengers and you want to jump on the bandwagon again?"

"No, and never" Clint deadpanned. "The only reason I'm here is because you took something that never belonged to you."

"What's that?"

"For starters," Clint reached his hand inside his jacket's pocket. He grabbed a flimsy paper and held it up to Deadpool to see. "Recognize him?"

Deadpool eyes narrowed on the small evidence presented to him before his mouth puckered into a tight acknowledgment. "Oh… Baby Boy!" he said, an easy smile coming to his face. "He's adorable, isn't he? I mean, if I could, I would carry him in my back pocket all day and night. Feed him little nuts—"

Deadpool's rambles were jolted to a sizzling sound. His body was wracked in tiny electric currents. Each blue lightening that trailed from the impaled arrow to the rest of his body zapped him into silence.

Clint released his thumb from the trigger. "Not so fun being on the other side of things, huh?" he commented, observing Deadpool's twitchy gestures. "You know, I figured you to be a somewhat decent guy. Sure—insane in a psychopathic manner, but still… I thought you had some morals. Like… not hurting children. That sort of thing."

"Is Spidey telling you I beat him up?" Deadpool asked, sounding hurt by the accusation. "I didn't hurt the damn kid! Well, I mean, I tried not to anyway. Kept getting in the way of my mission, which by the way, did you train him? Because I swear that some of his fighting maneuvers were exactly like yours. Anyway… I let him throw me around a bit, but I had to knock him out. I told him I was sorry about the nose!"

Clint frowned. "What about his nose?"

Deadpool paused. "Um… that I made fun of it."

"That's not even a good lie."

"Well, you knew it was going to be a lie anyway!"

True. He knew. "Either way, you should have left him alone."

"And watch him become the next Amber Alert? I don't think so," said Deadpool, wagging his finger. "You know the likely chance for a kid to survive after being missing for twenty-four hours?"

"So, you admit that what you did was wrong," Clint pointed out to him.

"I saved his life!"

"And that justifies kidnapping him?" Clint bellowed, blood rushing to his head. "Forcing him to watch you terrorize another person?"

Deadpool scoffed. "He didn't see a thing."

"Really? So… he didn't watch you pop Ross's kneecaps off?"

Deadpool hesitated again. "Err… no?"

Clint shook his head, disgusted. "Like I said, even though you're a bit mad, I at least believed you to be somewhat decent," he said. "Guess you're too fucked up to know the difference between right and wrong anyway."

Deadpool sagged in his trapped position. Regret settled on his shoulders, heavy enough to make them dip. "Shit… I'll make it up to him," he promised. "I swear. Shit. He's okay though, right? I mean he's not on a deathbed or anything?"

"What does it matter to you?" Clint challenged.

"I don't want the kid dead!"

"Then you shouldn't have dragged him to Maryland," he rebuked as his jaw clenched. "You should have returned him home."

"I called you, didn't I?"

"Too late though," Clint remembered Peter's tears-stained cheeks. The famous archer twirled the trigger in his hand. "Let's get this over with. I got things I need to do."

Clint casually crossed his arms, taking his prepared stance. "Where is the information you stole from Thaddeus Ross?"

Deadpool cocked his head. "Huh?"

"You didn't beat Ross for shit and giggles. Well, maybe you did, but I know you got something," Clint said. "Where is it?"

Deadpool screwed his mouth and eyes into a funny face. "I have no idea what you are talking about," he maintained. "Did I miss a chapter or something? I think I'm behind."

"No—we're not doing this," Clint lowly growled. "No more games. No more puns. No more breaking the fourth wall that only you see. None of that." Clint approached to Deadpool's trapped body. "Tell me where you hid it and I'll be on my way."

Deadpool exasperatedly sighed. "Wow. Lazy much?" he gestured his hand around the apartment. "Why don't you search the place yourself?"

"Because I know you."

"Meaning?"

"I know you rig your stowaways with booby traps," Clint replied. "And I'm not in the mood for attempts on my life."

"Then... why don't you let me handle this one, little birdie?" Deadpool playfully offered. "I'll take care of it all. Not free of charge, of course. I still want some cash for my contribution. Plus, a dinner date with—"

"You don't get to make any demands," Clint cut him off. "Not after the shit you pulled."

Deadpool hummed in thought. "You mean when I saved Spidey's life from Bull's Eye, who you guys didn't even realize existed until I killed him to stop him from taking Baby Boy? You mean that shit?" he proposed to Clint. "Or the fact that I did all the heavy lifting and got the information that you needed, but weren't able to do it because you Avengers can't spare to ruin your noble name in doing what needs to be done? Is it that shit? I mean, which one are you referring to? I'm completely stuck."

"All of it."

Deadpool dramatically tapped the side of his face. "Yeah… that probably sounds right," he agreed and then clapped his hands together. "Well, I would love to help you out. I really do, but… you see… I kind of have my own agenda."

Clint's heart quickened. "No—Wilson—no!" he reproached. "Don't you even think—"

"Too late for that," Deadpool whistled. "You see, Thaddeus and I had a good,  _long_  talk. In fact, he did recommend a few good reads. And I gotta say… he's got interesting taste. Now, I'm thoroughly invested."

"Wade—"

"Plus, Spidey and I are best friends forever now. I can't turn my back when he needs me the most!"

"He doesn't need you," Clint's face turned red, his angry eyes upon Deadppol. "He doesn't want you! You terrorized him! Why would he ever want to be around you again after that?"

Another bout of remorse fluttered across Deadpool's face.

Clint drew in a deep breath, cooling off his temper. If there was a chance to reach through Deadpool, it would be now. "Wade—do the right thing," he persuaded. "Where are the documents? What did you do with Ross's files?"

Deadpool pressed his lips together. A furrowed brow caved over his warring eyes. His mind in debate, realities blurred. It was a moment Clint believed to be a confession. But then… "No can do," Deadpool said with finality. "I'm doing the right thing. Tell Spidey that he will have his revenge."

Clint clenched his fists. There goes the idea that Deadpool had a conscious. "If that is your decision…"

His thumb moved over the trigger, ready to push down to invoke a wave of current through Deadpool. He eyed Deadpool, a shared determinism to beat other. Another game. Another fight. Another "dance off" as Deadpool fondly called them.

Before Clint could press down the trigger, a shocked voice rang out between them. They both snapped their attention to the door to see a woman, with long, dark hair, heavy make-up and scandalous attire standing in the middle of the doorway. She had a bag of groceries in one hand and a purse in the other.

"What the fuck is going on here?" she demanded, marching into the apartment. She spotted Deadpool and the arrow gutted in his heart. "Wade!"

"Hi sweetie!" Deadpool waggled his fingers to her. "We were just chatting."

Clint recognized her as the girl in the frame. Vanessa. Wade Wilson's girlfriend. She came home much earlier than anticipated.

Vanessa fretted over the arrow. She tugged on it, trying to yank it out of Deadpool's chest. To no avail, she whisked around, grabbing a saucepan and raising it up like a weapon. Clint only stared, tired and not finding it humorous at all. Brave, but pointless. Clint wasn't going to fight her.

"Put the saucepan down," Clint dismissed her futile attempt to protect Deadpool.

She didn't. Instead, she swung at his head. Clint dodged it, grabbed the handle, twisted it and pulled it out of her hand. He threw the saucepan behind him. He heard it clatter on the floor. "Now that is out of the way—"

Vanessa charged at him, fist flying at his face. Clint stepped aside, blocked her attempts and subdued her quick enough that caused no harm to her.

Clint released her. "Are you done?"

"You fucker!" she screamed. "I will cut off your dick if you touch me again!"

Clint flipped his eyes up from her to Deadpool. "I can see you guys are a match made in heaven."

Deadpool batted his eyelashes to her. "Isn't she the greatest?" he commented with a love-filled sigh.

Vanessa glanced between the two of them. "You fucking know this prick?" she asked Deadpool.

"Yeah, he's my elf friend," Deadpool acknowledged. "Likes to play with bows and arrows."

"I can tell," Vanessa gestured to the arrow sticking in his heart. "You mind telling me what the fuck is going on?"

"Just having a guys' night."

"No, we are not," Clint objected to the statement, "and I'm not his friend."

Deadpool gasped, sounding like he got shot again with an arrow. "You wound me, my old friend!" he exaggerated and he turned back to Vanessa. "We are good friends! Not best friends. Not anymore, at least."

"We were never friends."

"Keep telling yourself that, but we did share a friendship bracelet."

"You mean handcuffs?" Clint recalled the moment Deadpool handcuffed themselves together. A ploy to get Clint to stay with him and finish his mission. Clint shook his head at the blatant delusions. "I don't have time to go down memory lane and argue."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" Vanessa demanded. It seemed she didn't care for his presence in their apartment either.

"Your boyfriend stole classified documents involving a case the Avengers and the CIA are working on," Clint informed her. "And they aren't too happy about his involvement, particularly since it involves a minor." Clint narrowed at Deadpool. "I came in hopes of getting the files in a peaceful manner."

Vanessa's eyebrow arched high up on her forehead. She jabbed her thumb in the direction of the arrow. "You call this peaceful?"

"Better than Iron Man's plan."

Vanessa shook her head and muttered under her breath. "I'm guessing this is about that Parker kid, right?"

"Yes."

Vanessa mumbled a curse before she stomped passed Clint and straight to one of the many side tables around the apartment. She threw off a cloth to the floor and lifted a stack of papers and binders. The wooden floors creaked from the hostile jabs her stilettos made.

"Wait—babe! No!" Deadpool tried to stop her, but Vanessa carried on.

She came right up to Clint and shoved the huge stack into his chest. "You mean these files?"

Clint checked them. They all seem to be related to Thaddeus Ross. "Yeah," he answered, lifting his head up to Deadpool. "You left them lying about?"

Deadpool unflappably shrugged. "What? You made the assumption that I booby-trapped them," he reminded Clint. "I never said I did.  _And_  I gave you the option to look around yourself."

Clint wished so much to fire another arrow into Deadpool. "Thanks," he said to Vanessa. "Is that all of them?"

He directed that last questioned to Deadpool. The mercenary crossed his arms over the arrow and pouted. "You always have to go around and steal my things," he muttered, upset. "But, yeah. That's all of it, little buddy."

"Don't call me that," Clint packed the documents in the duffel. He zipped it closed and hoisted the straps on his shoulder. "I'll be on my way, now."

"Good," Vanessa said with a glare. "Because I want you to get the fuck out of our apartment."

Clint wanted to leave too. He had no desire to linger in Deadpool's presence any longer than necessary. Even then that was too much of his time. But first…

He walked up to Deadpool and grabbed hold of the arrow in his chest. Clint snapped it in half. "There," he said. "Now you can slide out and heal."

Deadpool slipped off the arrow, freeing himself from the wall. "Aw… how I miss that constant heartache," he mockingly replied. Then, he sobered up. His monstrous face stricken in a sickly promise. "To be clear, I'm not done. You better be prepared to fucking kill me because I'm not going to stop. I'm not done with this job."

Clint stopped, eyeing Deadpool carefully. "Yes, you are," he said. "If you want to help Peter, like you say you do, then you will stop this. All of it."

"Can't do that. You'll understand too once you learn what I now know."

Clint paused at the door. "What exactly is that?"

Deadpool shook his head. "Why tell you now?" he said with a sly smirk. "It would ruin the mystery of the story. You'll figure out. Just keep reading."

Deadpool always had a way to infuriate everything and everyone. Clint should have known to not fall for such parlor tricks of his. "Good night, Deadpool," he said. "And, just to be clear as well, if you ever come in contact with Peter Parker again, I will kill you."

Clint was done with Deadpool. He gave his regards to Vanessa and hurried out of the apartment, nearly running down the stairs. He needed to get as far away from Deadpool and his sense of madness as possible.

* * *

Clint returned to the compound in an hour's worth of time. As like last, he had no problems slipping passed security and entering the main apartment building on the compound. He greeted FRIDAY warmly and requested he be dropped off where the majority of his former teammates were located.

FRIDAY directed him to a level and parted the doors for him. He marched forward, hearing the others' voices carry down the hallway. He turned the corner and found them all in a conference room, surrounded by glass walls. Nat, Steve, Sam, Wanda, Vision, Colonel Rhodes and Stark sat around a rectangular table, debating or discussing what Clint assumed was the Parker situation.

Nat spotted him first. She got up from her chair and went to the door. She unlocked it and held it open. "Clint?" she said. "Where were you?"

"Out," Clint answered as he entered the conference room. All eyes were on him.

"How did it go?" Steve curiously asked, eyes scanning him for any signs of trauma. "Are you okay?"

Clint gave Steve a tiny smirk. "Better than last time."

He hoisted the duffel on the table. He pulled the zipper down and reached his hands in to grab the documents and binders. He pulled them out. One handful at a time, he placed them on the table for all to see. Once unloaded, he zipped the duffel back up.

"There it is," Clint said. "It's everything Deadpool stole from Ross."

Stark grabbed one of the binders, his eyebrow cocked in mild disbelief. "Everything?" he questioned. "He's a tricky son of a bitch."

Oh—Clint was well aware of the kind of guy Deadpool is. "Everything that he had and I doubt he had more," Clint countered Stark's doubts. "Ross told him things too, but he refused to share any of it with me. Said we had to find out on our own."

Nat stood beside Clint, arms folded across her chest with a furrowed brow. "This is quite a lot to have in regards to one person."

"Not really," Colonel Rhodes said, flipping through a stack of paper on his own. "I would say this is little compared to what we have on all of you guys individually."

"That's not what I mean," Nat said. She reached for a single sheet of loose paper. "It's a lot of information for a fired government and military employee to have at home. He shouldn't have this. Any of it. It should have been turned over to Agent Ross. The other one." She scrunched her face in confusion as she read the sheet of data. "Why does he have it? And why did he keep it at home? You can't take classified documents off premises at the risk of it being stolen."

Clint frowned, rubbing his chin in thought. Nat made an excellent point. Why did Thaddeus Ross have all these documents on Peter at his private home?

Stark closed his binder with a snap. "Well, only one way to find out," he said and he gestured to everyone in the room. "Grab a stack and start reading. I'll turn on the coffee machine."


	19. Michelle Jones

Michelle stared up at the domineering building before her. It wasn't the height that intimidated her as much as the gigantic 'A' logo on the side of the building. The Avengers Compound. It looked exactly as it sounded. Sleek, modern and gigantic. It was vast with multiple buildings, an airstrip and hanger, and Michelle swore she saw a dock that overlooked a lake that hid behind luscious trees. The whole compound was practically its own community. Suburbia for superheroes. A place Michelle never expected to spend her Friday afternoon.

Yet, she, Ned and Harry arrived at the compound directly after the last bell in school. It took several weeks and lots of paperwork for the three of them to be approved to step inside the gate. It was ridiculous. Not only did she have to go through an intense screening process, but so did her parents. It was unnerving and unnecessary for the bombarding questions thrown at them. Michelle handled her own interrogation quite well though. In fact, she was sure she gave the interviewer a far bigger headache than the one he gave her.

In the end, she was approved and was allowed entry in certain designated areas of the compound. That was to be expected. Still, she found it ludicrous on the extent it took them to visit a friend.

But when Peter rushed out of the doors and down the steps to the vehicle with a stupid grin on his face, Michelle frustrations evaporated.

Harry whistled at the impressed stature of the compound. "Christ," he remarked, slowly rotating to examine the might of the area. "You live here?"

Peter dipped his head, rolling his lips in. "Yeah," he muttered, closing the SUV doors after Ned crawled out from the back. Peter waved to the driver. "Thanks Mike!"

The driver pulled away and Peter led them up the steps to the building in front of them. Michelle noticed that Harry was searching around them, checking out faces of people who passed them. "So, you live here with other Avengers?"

"Um, yeah," Peter answered, nodding. "A few of them live here like Captain, Falcon, Scarlet Witch..."

Harry's eyes bulged. "Is Captain America here? Like, right now?"

Peter bit his lower lip. "Um… no," he said after a moment. "No, most of them are gone. Captain America and Falcon went to DC for the weekend."

And Harry's hopeful face fluttered to severe disenchantment. He dropped his hands inside his jacket and let them hang.

They reached the top of the stairs. Peter held the door open for them. "How's the drive, by the way? It's not too bad. At least, I don't think it is."

"It was the best! I never ever got a car escort before," Ned happily chattered. "You should have seen Flash! He was jealous when the car pulled up. Oh—did you know that the car has drinks and snacks. Free of charge too! Did you know that?"

"Yeah, they usually carry water and some pretzels or something like that," Peter answered as he strolled through the main lobby where a suited man spied their every footstep to the elevators. "All in? Alright... FRIDAY?"

Michelle didn't flinch like Harry and Ned when a woman's voice answered above their heads. " _Yes, Mr. Parker_?"

"Home, please."

The elevator arrived and they all gathered in. Michelle stood beside Peter as he instructed the AI to take them home. The elevator moved, rising up. Ned, giddy, stared at the expansive compound.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, face pressed against the elevator glass. "Look at the size of that plane! Is that even a plane?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder. "Um... no," he answered. "It's a Quinjet. One of them at least."

Ned's mouth dropped. "'One of them'," he repeated. "There's more than one!"

Peter nodded.

"Have you flown in one?"

Peter nodded again.

"Oh my god! That's so cool!" Ned exclaimed. "What's it like? How fast can it go? Was it—"

"I don't really know. I was kind of out of it when I was on it," Peter answered. "Fell asleep."

Ned gaped at him. "You fell asleep," he said, shocked, "on a Quinjet?"

"It was a long night," Peter responded as the elevator came to a stop. The doors parted to a corridor and Peter gestured for them to follow him. "This way."

They strolled down a white corridor, following the black ribbon tile the led to several doors with key pads outside each one. Ned and Harry hardly paid attention to where they were going. Their focus was driven to the floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying the entire layout of at least half of the compound.

Michelle quickened her pace to walk beside Peter. She's seen jets before and alien ships and flying men. A Quinjet and a few modernize buildings wasn't enough to impress her. As they neared the end of the corridor, Peter stopped at a door. He tapped on the key code. The door unlocked and opened to the Parker's apartment.

The apartment wasn't as exquisite as Michelle originally anticipated. It looked like a regular apartment, albeit a bit nicer. Carpeted living room, hard wood flooring in the hallway and decorative tile in the kitchen that had a small island that served as a border for the hallway and kitchen. The walls were beige. Plain if it didn't have the few framed pictures and decorative art to make it more unique and homey. The television was a large flat screen. A Sony BRAVIA OLED to be exact, according to Ned, who gasped upon seeing it.

"No way!" Ned went straight for the television, hovering around in giddy fashion. "You have a BRAVIA OLED TV?! With a 4K HDR Z1 processor? Oh, man! I'm so jealous! Dude—we have to play Fortnite on this."

"Maybe later," Peter responded, but he wasn't looking at the television. His eyes were fixed ahead, down the hallway where Michelle heard the sound of wheels coming down the stretch. It was a miniature claw machine, rolling down on four wheels, its claw-like hand reaching up towards the group.

Michelle stepped back from its approach while Peter stepped forward. "No—DUMBO! Go!" he shooed the robot away. "Go to my room! Come on..."

Peter ran after the wheeling robot, taking its claw-like hand and directing it to a room. Michelle listened to him tell the robot to stay before closing the door shut. "Sorry about that," Peter apologized, looking at Michelle as he returned. "He gets a bit excited when he hears new voices."

Harry popped his head down the hallway, intrigued. "Is that your robot?" he asked. "More like a dog."

Peter raked his fingers through his hair. "I somewhat regret giving him wheels," He gestured to the living room. "You guys can drop your stuff off over there. If you need the bathroom, it's down the hall to the right."

Michelle dropped her backpack, but didn't have to use the bathroom. Ned had to go. After all, he had two drinks and a snack on the ride up. They waited for him and Harry looped around the living room, checking the place out probably to compare it to his family's penthouse.

"Nice digs," Harry quipped, coming back to where Michelle stood. "How much do you pay for rent?"

"About two thousand."

"I was being sarcastic," Harry said with that loose smile of his. "You don't actually pay rent here. Wait. Do you?"

Peter nodded, serious. "My aunt insisted. She didn't want to live rent-free. Some kind of independence thing," he explained. "Mr. Stark tried to convince her otherwise, but May refused to go any lower than two thousand. So… we pay two thousand a month."

Harry stared, gobsmacked. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he said, but Peter didn't contradict his statement. "Holy shit! You're not. Wow… never heard of someone not accepting free rent before."

"Nor have you ever heard of someone offering free rent before," Michelle countered to which Harry shrugged. "Well, I think your aunt is smart. Sucks to rely everything on a man and not yourself. Good independence."

They heard the toilet flush and a moment later, Ned came out of the bathroom. "Your bathroom is amazing! Did you know that your toilet—"

"Yeah, Ned, I do," Peter cut him off, not interested in gushing about every single object in the apartment. "So, um, you guys want a tour?"

The enthusiastic response got Peter to laugh, little lines crinkling around his eyes and corners of his mouth. He led them out of the apartment and back to the elevator. "FRIDAY? Rec floor, please."

Michelle felt the elevator descend. Harry busied Peter's attention with questions about his robot, asking about its programming and power source before the elevator settled to a stop. The doors parted to a large, extravagant room.

Peter stepped out of the elevator, turning to face his friends as he entered the room backwards. "Welcome to the Avengers Compound."

* * *

Peter showed them around the compound, starting with the home movie theater, equipped with snacks, beverages and any movie available, including the current films playing in cinemas. They continued their tour through the building, checking out the bowling alley, massage parlor and even the obstacle course that the Avengers apparently use for training purposes.

Peter demonstrated how to finish the course. He made it look easy that even Harry and Ned tried to follow him. They didn't last long. In fact, Ned quit after the first obstacle. Harry held out a little longer. After the first two obstacles, his confidence grew. He started the third obstacle with a wink directed at Michelle, who promptly sent him the middle finger. That only made him laugh as he jumped right into the third obstacle. And that was when Michelle smothered her own laughter when she watched Harry fall flat on his back. Peter and Ned helped him off the course, much to Harry's embarrassment. He couldn't even look Michelle in the eye.

"You wanna try?" Ned asked her.

Michelle smartly opted out. She didn't see the point when she could simply walk down to the end of the course on the grass. The obstacle course got Harry and Ned all sweaty, so they went to the pool to cool off. They splashed around, jumped off the diving board and even played a game of volleyball. Michelle teamed up with Peter and, naturally, they won the game.

Tired, they got out of the pool to return to the apartment. She was the lone girl in the woman's locker room. Running her fingers through her wet curls, she considered whether to tie her hair up or leave it down to dry quicker. She decided ponytail was the better option and tied it up into a knot. Quickly, Michelle wrapped her suit in a towel and stepped out of the locker room, finding Peter, Ned and Harry waiting on her.

Peter spotted her first. "Ready?"

They headed back to the apartment. DUMBO greeted them again. He managed to get out of Peter's bedroom and its wheels zoomed around their feet in hysteria, making shrilled noises of enthusiasm.

Peter shooed it away, but didn't order it back to his room. The little robot rolled around him, heading straight to the kitchen with its claws up. Peter pulled out his phone. "You guys hungry? Want pizza or Indian? Chinese?"

"I'm down for some pizza," Harry said, falling back on the couch. "Princess? Want to split a veggie?"

Michelle's teeth clenched in retaliation of that horrid nickname, but responded with a leveled voice. "Actually, I want Chinese," she looked to Harry with an overtly sweet smile. One may even describe it as deadly. "Is that all right,  _sweetie_?"

Harry cocked a brow at the sentiment, confused by the kind words mingled with the underlying tensed tone. Peter awkwardly stared between the two of them. "Um… okay," he said, coughing a bit. "So... pizza or Chinese?"

"I like both," Ned answered, not picky at the options. Nor was he observant at the situation before him.

Harry brushed his hair from his face. His gaze lingered on her, studying her face that unnerved Michelle. Why did Harry have to look at her like that? After a brief second, Harry half-heartedly shrugged.

"Whatever you say, Princess," he said to Michelle before answered Peter's question. "Chinese is good, Parker."

Peter still hesitated, looking to Michelle for confirmation. She gave a little nod and Peter hit a button on his phone. "KAREN?"

Harry picked his head up, scanning the room. "Who's Karen?"

" _Yes, Peter_?" came a new embodied voice. Another AI, although the voice was much softer and kinder than the one from the elevator.

"Whoa!" Harry shot up from the couch. "You have another AI?"

Peter nodded in response to Harry's question. He waved his phone up. "Yeah, this is KAREN. My AI. She's cool."

" _Thank you_ ," KAREN replied to Peter's compliment. " _Hello friends of Peter. I've heard so much about you."_

Ned hurried to Peter, nearly colliding into him as he reached for Peter's phone. "You have an AI in your phone? Like Iron Man?" he said, mouth hanging wide open. "That's so cool! Is your suit inside—"

Peter elbowed Ned in the ribs. "It's a regular phone, Ned. It just has KAREN added onto it," he said. "It's not that fancy."

"It's a Starkphone!" Ned exclaimed. "It's fancy!" He admired over it. "Does it only respond to you or can others talk to it?"

"Let's find out?" Michelle said as she bent down closer to the phone. "Hey—KAREN? Do you record everything even when not asked to?"

She has read the news reports about other minor AIs recording their owners' private conversations. Michelle didn't trust ALEXAs, or SIRIs or Googles. Reliance on AIs meant dependence and no privacy. Something Michelle coveted.

KAREN solidified her concerns. "I record only upon request or when he's wearing his Spider-man suit."

That answered both questions. "Thanks—oh, and don't record anything on me," Michelle added as pressed the phone back to Peter.

Peter took his phone again. "Hey, um, KAREN? Can you order Chinese?" he asked. "The normal order plus... what did you guys want?"

They all said what they would like to eat and KAREN got it all, despite they cut each other off and their voices mingling with one another. " _Do you want me to double that order_?"

Peter thought. "Umm… no. I can eat leftovers from the other day."

" _The food is ordered. I will alert you when it is coming_."

"Thanks KAREN," Peter said and he clicked on a button on his phone before sliding it in his pocket. "Food will be coming soon. What do you guys want to do?"

They decided on a board game. Pictionary to be exact, a game Michelle enjoyed as her artistic talent shined through to a victory. Peter retrieved the game from the top shelf and settled it on the coffee table.

Michelle stepped up to the table, eyes drawn to Peter. "So, um, you wanna—"

"Hey Princess!" Harry called out, sliding up next to her. "Be on my team. We can take on these two."

Before Michelle protested, Harry had his arm looped around her own arm, securing them as partners. And Ned went along, taking Peter as his partner and declaring that they could beat them.

"We've been friends since kindergarten," Ned reminded them all. "We can read each other's mind. We got this in the bag."

Michelle was stuck with Harry as her partner. She snuck a quick look at Peter as she took her seat next to Harry. Perhaps she and Peter could be drawing partners, but that hope was dashed when Ned sat across from her rather than Peter, making Ned and her competing together for their respective teams. Michelle sagged into a sitting position as Harry picked the green game piece to be their champion while Peter picked red. Her favorite color.

* * *

The food arrived and DUMBO assisted Peter in passing out the food. They devoured cartons of fried rice, lo mien and sweet and sour chicken in a matter of minutes. They mixed and shared the food as they continued on with the game. By the time May Parker returned to the apartment, they already scarfed all but a few spring rolls and white rice. The dumplings were gone, the leftover soy packets the only evidence of its existence.

Ned and Peter were barely in the lead when May came through the door, her heels clacking against the wooden floors. She didn't see them. Her back faced them as she dropped her purse on top of the counter before letting out a long, drawn sigh.

They could hear May shooing away the robot from her. "Go away, DUMBO! No, stop… Jesus…  _Peter_!" May called. "I'm home!"

"Right here," Peter responded and May spun around to find her nephew and friends surrounding a game board.

"Oh! Hi guys!" May said, flustered at not seeing them earlier. "How is everyone? Ned? You doing good?"

Ned grinned at May. "Doing great!" he said. "You got a lovely place."

May held back a snort. "Yeah, sure, if you want to call it mine," she commented, looking at all their faces. She stopped on her face. "You must be MJ."

Michelle nodded. "Yeah, hey," she said, cursing silently to herself for responding in casual manner. "Erm, nice to meet you."

"Oh—yeah," Peter sat up, remembering his job as a host. "Aunt May? This is MJ and Harry."

May acknowledged Harry with a happy, but strained smile. Almost like it was forced. "It's nice to meet everyone," she said. "Peter's told me so much about you guys. Are you having fun? No problems?"

"No, ma'am," Harry politely responded. "Been having a good day so far."

"I can tell. Been swimming?" May said, playing a bit with Peter's wet hair as she scanned the empty cartons. "I see you went ahead and ordered dinner?"

"Um… yeah," Peter sounded apologetic for not leaving enough food for her. "Went with Chinese. We have a few leftovers, but you probably want to get something else."

"Oh, I'm not eating here. Going out with Pepper tonight," May said, backing away from them to go down the hallway. "Speaking of which, I need to change out of my work clothes. So, excuse me, you guys keep… keep doing what you were doing."

May was gone. Michelle heard a door close and figured she was changing into different clothes. Peter looked surprised by that announcement, but shrugged and returned to the game. "Alright Ned," he said. "Draw the card."

It became apparent they were evenly matched. While Michelle's artistic skills were on point, her partner's imagination was not. Harry struggled to comprehend what her drawings stood for. Ned's artistic ability was zilch. He couldn't draw anything better than stick figures. His board looked like a mess and yet, Peter always managed to guess the answer correctly before Harry did. Guess Ned was correct in regards to their ability to read minds.

It was her turn to draw a card and she shared it with Ned. They had to draw an anvil. The timer started and, Ned and Michelle drew as quickly as possible. Harry cocked his head, confused at what he saw. "Is it a hammer?"

Michelle groaned, and sketched a road runner. Still, Harry was clueless.

"Anvil!"

Peter got the answer and Ned gave him a high five. Another point to them. Michelle scrubbed away her perfectly drawn anvil and road runner. Ned, meanwhile, drew a punch of lines that resembled… well, it resembled nothing and yet, Peter got the correct answer. Board clean, she passed it to Harry and they continued playing.

Peter and Ned were winning by a sliver when the bell rang. Peter got up from his seat as May called for him to answer the door. When the door opened, a tall, slim, strawberry blonde woman entered the room with one hand carrying a baby carrier, a shoulder lugging a big diaper bag, and another hand held a baby.

"Oh, hey, Peter," said the woman, exhausted, as she lowered the baby carrier on the floor and let the diaper bag slip of her shoulder to the floor. "Is May around?"

"In her bedroom," Peter pointed behind him as he opened the door wider for her to enter. "I thought you guys were going out?"

"We are," the woman sounded irritated, "but Tony's not back yet from his meeting. So that means…" She switched her arms' position and handed the baby over to Peter. "I need you to babysit."

Peter accepted the baby in his arms, cradling the baby. "But, I have friends…"

The woman now noticed them for the first time. "Oh, sorry! I didn't see you there," she said to them. "You must be Peter's friends." She stepped away from Peter and moved to the living room, stretching her thin arm to Michelle first. "Hi! I'm Pepper."

Pepper Potts. CEO of Stark Industries and Tony Stark's fiancé. One of the most innovative, leading woman in the business industry. Michelle shook her hand. "Michelle Jones," she said.

Pepper smiled wide. "Nice to meet you," she said before she moved onto Ned and then Harry.

Although, Harry needed no introductions. Pepper looked at him, warmly. "I know who you are," she said to Harry. "You look like your mother."

Harry sucked in a breath. He never spoke of his mother. His only mention of her was that she died before he could remember her at all. "Hello, Ms. Potts," he said, his voice a bit squeaky. "I didn't realize you knew my mother."

"Tony and your father ran in the same circles," Pepper explained. "Did the same circuits, conferences and parties. I met your mother at a few of them. I enjoyed her company. Lively and funny."

Harry rolled in his lips, eyes casted downward for a fleeting second. "That's what my father tells me," he said, looking back at Pepper. There was a sadness reflecting in his irises. Not of love, but of abandonment. "Love of his life."

Pepper must have noticed because her tone became softer. "Yes, she was."

"Thank you for allowing me to visit the compound," Harry thanked her. "I'm sure it wasn't easy for Mr. Stark to agree."

Pepper huffed a chuckle. "Tony does whatever I tell him," she dismissed. "And it's no problem. You're a friend of Peter's and Peter's friends are always welcomed."

Footsteps interrupted the small talk as May reappeared, dressed in a far more casual attire than her pencil skirt and blouse. "Hey! I see you met the kids," she said to Pepper, but stopped when she saw Peter holding a baby. May's face squished into an excited smile as she went straight to the baby, cooing over it. "Oh my! Look who's growing. You're getting cuter every day."

She tickled the baby's stomach. The baby gurgled in response. "So… guessing Tony's late?" May posed the question.

Pepper sighed, going back to the front door. "He said the meeting went over, but knowing him, he probably did it all by himself," she said, but turned to Peter. "Can you watch her until Tony comes home? He should get here in about an hour. If he doesn't, you have my full permission to revoke all of Tony's parental privileges."

Peter glanced from Pepper's pleading face to the baby's face. There was a resignation to his expression when he nodded. "Yeah, it's not a problem."

Relief shed off Pepper's shoulder. "Oh—thank you! Diapers and a bottle are in the bag. If anything happens, call me on my phone or call Tony," she said, giving him a one arm hug before kissing the top of the baby's head. "Be good to Peter."

And then they were gone. May and Pepper walked out, chatting like old friends, leaving Peter with the baby and a party to entertain. The silence lasted only for a few seconds before the wails of the baby erupted.

Peter started rocking the baby, bouncing it a little as he made back to the game. "Hey… hey, it's okay," he whispered. "Your mommy will be back."

The little baby scrunched its face and turned red as tears flowed down its chubby cheeks. Peter kept the baby on his lap, holding it as he gently rocked himself to calm the baby down. Ned and Harry gawked at the baby, almost finding it unbelievable to be in the company of a screaming infant.

"Is that—" Ned started, staring at the baby. "Oh my god… it is! That's… that's…"

He couldn't finish his sentence, but Michelle knew what he wanted to say. Peter was holding Tony Stark's baby. The famous baby that has yet to be released to the public. No one has seen pictures or news about the infant since its birth. In fact, the only tidbit of information available was that Pepper gave birth. That was it.

And now, Michelle, Ned and Harry sat around a board game, staring into the eyes of the mythical baby. It was real, loud and, apparently, a baby girl.

"There, there, Maria," Peter cooed as the baby started to quiet down. "Don't worry. They'll be back soon."

"Maria is her name?" Harry said.

Peter looked up from the baby. "Yeah. Maria May Stark," he clarified for them, "but don't go around telling anyone that, okay? Tony and Pepper don't want the world to know. And if it gets leaked out—"

"Relax, Peter," Michelle said to calm him. "We won't say a word. Even if we didn't signed those non-disclosure agreements."

Peter relaxed as he lifted Maria up a little before settling her back on his lap. "Thanks."

"Do you often babysit her?" Harry piped up, taking a swig of his Coke. He looked uncomfortable being around the infant.

"Sometimes, but not a lot," Peter answered after some consideration. "Tony and Pepper are very hands-on with her. They don't have a nanny for her. At least, not yet. If they need one, they come to me or Aunt May."

Ned kept staring at the baby, mouth agape. "You are the luckiest guy in the world," he uttered. "You get to hang-out with Tony Stark's kid!"

"I  _babysit_  her, Ned. Not hang-out," Peter reiterated.

Just then DUMBO wheeled up to Peter, its claw coming in close contact to Maria's face. Peter jerked Maria out of DUMBO's reach. "No! DUMBO! No!" he scolded the robot. "No… hold on."

Before Michelle knew what was happening, Peter handed her the baby. "Hold her while I take DUMBO to my room," he said, placing Maria in her arms as he lifted DUMBO off the floor.

Michelle held the baby. The baby's dark eyes shiny as she unashamedly stared at Michelle's face with a scrutiny of distrust. Not that Michelle blamed her. They only just met and were perfectly, good strangers. To her relief, the baby didn't cry. Maria choked a bit on her fading sobs, but no more high-pitched screams of dismay.

Ned enviously looked at her. "You're holding Stark's baby!"

"I am well aware of that," Michelle retorted, not entirely happy about the responsibility. "Here—you wanna hold her?"

She tried to pass her off to Ned, but Ned retracted his hands. "Oh no! No… I don't want to get in trouble with Iron Man. What if I accidently hurt her or damage her? Nope. Not risking it."

Michelle turned to Harry. He too shook his head. "It's best that Starks and Osborns stay separate," he claimed. "It never ends well when they meet up."

It was not a well-hidden secret that Stark and Osborn despised one another. They were competitors who held little to no respect for one another. That's not surprising for Michelle. Almost everyone in the business world hated Stark for his arrogance and unbeatable products.

"You know," Michelle said as she adjusted the baby. "I'm surprised you were accepted in here at all. Would have thought your dad wouldn't want you around Stark at all… unless to spy on him, of course."

Harry curled a corner of his lip up into a smirk. "Who says my dad knows where I am?"

Typical teenage rebellion. Lying to the parents. Not that Michelle hadn't partake in such traditions, but it made the picture clearer for her as to how Harry managed to tag along with them to the compound.

Peter eventually returned and took over the baby duties, freeing Michelle from all burdens of endangering the child. Peter placed Maria on his lap and leaned over the game board, figuring whose turn it was to draw a card. "Harry? We're up."

They played several rounds. Each one becoming more dramatic and competitive. Peter beat Harry in almost every round in spite of Ned's poor scribbles he called drawings. Michelle was a reliable partner. Even though Harry's drawings (and Peter's for that matter) weren't quite on point, she understood the drawing far quicker than Ned.

But, her genius wasn't enough to claim victory. That belonged to Ned and Peter, who scored the final round with Peter naming 'in a pickle' correctly. They did their stupid handshake in victory and got Maria to cheer for them in the form of shrieks and squeals. Harry acted indifferent about the lost, but Michelle saw through the façade. The slight twitch in his left eye and the darted looks and frown in the winners' direction was enough to know he wasn't too happy about losing.

Neither was Michelle.

* * *

A driver arrived an hour later, ready to take Ned and Harry back to Queens as per the schedule. Ned groaned. "But… I don't wanna go! Why isn't Michelle coming?"

"Because my dad is picking me up," Michelle answered. "And, as of now, he's not here."

Michelle's ride was postponed. Her father already talked to security and explained that his phone conference with China got pushed back to seven tonight and he wouldn't be able to pick up his daughter until later. They notified her and Peter of the change, so Michelle had a few more hours to kill before her father came to pick her up before they drive through the night to Boston.

Ned's shoulders slumped, disappointed he was forced to leave early. "Can't we stay until Michelle's dad comes?"

The driver didn't even bat an eyelid. "No," he said. "Times have been arranged to depart now."

Peter promised Ned could come back any time. Harry's shoulder drooped, even he was disappointed to leave the compound. Harry said his goodbyes as he grabbed his backpack. Before he left, he went up to Michelle with a charming smile and a wink. "See you later, Princess."

Once they were gone, only she and Peter were left to stand uneasily in his apartment. Michelle tried to play it cool. She kept her posture casual, her mouth a straight line to restrain any emotion from giving away her thoughts. Peter, however, was a bundle of nerves. He busied himself with Maria, using her as a distraction to occupy himself from being forced to embarrass himself with small talk. But, he couldn't keep doing that forever. In the end, he sought to end the awkward silence.

Peter hoisted Maria up, keeping her close as her little fingers poked at his hair. "So… um, when did you say your dad was coming again?"

"He's finishing a call around seven," Michelle answered. "Probably around eight or eight-thirty."

"Cool, cool," Peter said, adjusting Maria in his arms. "So, um… you hungry at all? I could heat up something or… thirsty? Water? Tea? We don't have the best coffee, if that's what you want. But I can go get it. It's not that far from—"

"I'm fine, Peter," Michelle said to him. "I can get a drink for myself." To prove it, she walked over to the kitchen, took out a glass from the cupboard, and filled it with tap water. "See? Done."

Peter huffed a nervous twitch in the corner of his lips. "Okay," he said, moving back to the living to clean up the board game. Michelle joined him and they quickly packaged the game together again. "Thanks for that."

"No problem," Michelle said as she popped a squat on the floor beside Maria, who kept reaching for the leftover spoon no one used. She teased her with it, twirling around in her fingers to mesmerize the baby. "I didn't know you were a great Pictionary player. Thought you were more into nerd things like Legos or video games."

"I am," Peter confirmed as he took a seat on the floor as well. He watched her and Maria play for a minute. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Better than you."

"I, um, I didn't get the answers from Ned's board," Peter confessed and he lifted his gaze from the floor to Michelle. "I got them from you."

Michelle stopped messing with the spoon. "You looked at my board?"

"There's no rules against it," Peter defended. "And… Ned can't draw and you draw really well. I couldn't help, but glance at yours."

Michelle stared down at him, not in judgment. A warm foreign feeling fluttered in her stomach as she repeated his words in her head. "I knew it wasn't mind reading," she finally said. "You don't have that power."

"No, I don't," Peter affirmed. "Only Wanda does."

She didn't know who was Wanda, but assumed he meant Scarlet Witch. The Avenger with the mind control powers. "Next time, we should be partners," Michelle said, "and whoop their asses."

"Only if you want to," Peter said as if his throat tightened. "You and Harry did all right. I thought you guys were, um, good partners. You guys looked good… I-I mean… you did good. Good word. Teamwork, I mean."

Michelle narrowed her eyes at him before she scoffed. "Yeah… like Sid and Nancy."

Peter looked perplexed. "Who?"

"No one," Michelle said as she handed the spoon back to Maria. "Hey... Maria? You want the spoon?"

She attempted to entertain the baby with a few spoon tricks, but Maria was no longer interested. She kept squirming and made faces, acting irritated by something neither of them could see. Peter quizzically stared, pondering the reason for the sudden fit.

"Oh no."

Michelle eyed Peter. "What?"

Peter raised Maria up and sniffed. "Oh no," he said as he lowered the baby, her face screwing into a tighter distraught look. "She needs a diaper change."

"So? Go change it."

"I don't know how to change a diaper!"

Michelle was bewildered that Peter didn't know how to change a diaper. "I thought you've babysat her before?"

"Yeah, but she never used the bathroom when she's with me," Peter claimed, reaching for the diaper bag and tugging it to him. "Okay... um, KAREN?"

Peter's phone came alight. " _Yes, Peter?"_

_"_ Can you tell me how to change a diaper?"

It would have been humorous to watch Peter struggle changing his first diaper, but Michelle did not wish for Maria to be in further discomfort. No need for the baby to keep crying over a diaper rash.

"Here," Michelle held out her arms to Peter. "I'll change her diaper."

Peter didn't hand the baby over. "Do you know how?"

"Of course," Michelle said, slightly offended Peter didn't trust her. "I've been a babysitter for my neighbors' kids since 2015. I know a thing or two about cleaning up after a baby."

Convinced, Peter passed off the crying infant to Michelle. She took the baby and grabbed the diaper bag. "Come on," she signaled Peter to follow with a jerk of her head. "I'll teach you, so you can do it next time."

They entered the bathroom for privacy. Ned was right. The bathroom was spacious and clean. She used a towel as the layout, settling Maria on it as she searched for the supplies needed.

"You're going to be fine," Michelle uttered as she pulled out wipes, a diaper and baby powder and lotion. "I'm not incompetent."

Peter got down on his knees beside Michelle, watching her undo the old diaper. The smell hit them square in the face. Michelle cringed her nose, the foul odor assaulting her nostrils. She had to be quick. She wadded up the used diaper and threw it into the trash. "Okay, after you throw the old diaper away, you'll need to wipe her clean," Michelle instructed Peter. "Get the wipes and wipe front to back."

Peter took one of the wipes and Michelle carefully lifted Maria's legs up for Peter to clean.

But, Peter pulled back. "Um... I don't know if I should be doing this."

"What?"

"I mean," Peter avoided Maria entirely, eyes turned away as his cheeks burned. "I... I don't think it's appropriate for me to, um..."

Oh.  _Oh_. Oh good grief! "Fine. Give it here."

Michelle took the wipe from Peter's hands. She gently wiped the baby's bum, cleaning up the last residue of feces and urine. Maria's cries turned into heavy breathing. Her little chest struggled to keep up the sobs.

Michelle gently rubbed her belly. "I know. I know," she murmured. "It sucks. I'm going as fast as I can." She looked back to Peter. "Hand me the powder and lotion."

Peter passed the items to her and Michelle lathered the baby with powder and lotion. "Okay, Peter, this is the easy part," she said to him, handing him a fresh diaper. "Put the new diaper on her."

Maria's legs kept kicking and moving, making it difficult for Peter to get the diaper on her. "How do I get her to stop moving?" Peter asked as Maria kicked the diaper back down. "Come on, Maria. You're supposed to be good to me, remember?"

"Hold her legs first," Michelle told him. "Lift them up and then place her butt... yeah, like that." She observed Peter slide half of the diaper underneath Maria's butt. He then held Maria's legs down with one hand as he used his other hand to fold the flaps over, securing the new diaper on the baby.

By this time, Maria had stopped crying. Her dark eyes followed Michelle, lips blowing up spit-bubbles. Michelle smiled and made goofy faces as Peter got the new diaper situated. The baby smiled and gurgled, her flabby arms waving.

"We did it!" Peter cried, proud.

Michelle couldn't help but smile at the baby. "You feel better, don't you? Yeah?" she said to Maria, brushed some of the baby's black hair back from her forehead. "All right. Let's pack up."

They cleaned up the mess, packing away the lotion and powder back in the bag. Michelle dropped the towel in the basket as they exited out of the bathroom, as Maria bounced happily in Peter's arms. They moved back to the living room, setting Maria down on the floor to play with the spoon.

Peter and Michelle sat and watched her, laughing a little at how easily Maria entertained herself with the spoon. Michelle took a moment to look up and saw Peter staring at her before he quickly dropped his gaze back to Maria, tickling her belly.

While Peter looked away, Michelle didn't. She watched Peter play with Maria, making funny faces and pretending to disappear behind his hands. He didn't act self-conscious or embarrassed. Not like the other boys in their grade. They wouldn't be caught playing 'Peek-a-boo' with a baby or even try to learn how to change a diaper. Peter, however, cared little of his image at the moment. He only wanted to make Maria happy. And Michelle saw that as a rare trait.

They entertained Maria, watching her flip from her back to tummy. Her little head lifted from the ground for a few seconds before falling back on the carpet. She squealed in delight and then lifted her neck up again. At one point, Michelle had Maria on her lap while Peter dangled a scarf in front of the baby, swinging it slowly in front as Maria followed with her eyes. Every now and then, Maria made a swipe for it, gurgling in frustration.

Michelle laughed when Maria flapped and bounced in her lap. "You almost had it. Try again."

Almost as if she understood, Maria went for the scarf again. Peter was kind and allowed her tiny fingers grab the scarf. Maria screeched, giggling as she let go of the scarf to grab for it again.

"Very good, M&Ms," Peter proudly cheered, jiggling her arm in celebration. "You're getting stronger!"

"What did I say about calling her that name?"

Michelle snapped her head up. Tony Stark stood right by the door, sunglasses off his face and in his hand. He was dressed in a suit, pinstripe, and wore a tie. Stark flicked his gaze from his baby to Michelle as he swaggered into the living room.

"Oh, hey, Mr. Stark," Peter greeted. "Did you just get in?"

"Yep," Stark answered with a strong 'pop' at the end. "Pepper told me you were on babysitting duty, so I came as fast as I could."

He dropped to his knees, right in front of Michelle as he gave a big smile to his infant daughter. "Hey! It's Daddy," he said. "I've come to take you away from these bad influences."

Peter rolled his eyes as Michelle handed Maria to her father. Maria recognized Stark. Her coos grew louder, almost to a shrill as she wiggled in her father's arms all excited. Stark lifted Maria up, coming to a full stand as he grinned at the happy noises Maria made for him.

"Yes, your knight in shining armor is here," Stark teased his baby.

Peter rose up to his feet and Michelle followed suit, standing beside him in wait. Stark ignored them. He carried his daughter back to the door, scooping the baby carrier back up and putting it on the island counter. He strapped Maria in the baby carrier to which made Maria pout and fuss over her new confinement.

"You grumpy? Past bedtime that's for sure," Stark muttered as he lifted the baby carrier off the counter and turned back to the teenagers. "Which means I gotta ask—what's happening here? Taking the midnight train?"

Michelle frowned at the reference. "My dad is running late," she said. "His call with China got postponed, so he's picking me up later. About ten... so, just hanging out until then."

"I can have someone drive you home," Stark offered.

"I'm not going home," Michelle corrected him. "Heading straight to Boston from here."

"Boston?"

"My brother is playing basketball up there."

Stark got the whole picture. "Tell you what," he started. "Why don't you just spend the night here? Then in the morning, your parents can come up and you guys can fly my private jet to Boston."

The offer surprised her. Generous as it was, Michelle sensed an ulterior motive behind the offer. Something deeper that Stark covered with a friendly gesture. She stared hard at Stark, looking for signs of weakness, but he gave nothing away.

"Thanks, but my dad already made plans," she said. "Besides, my mom got us a hotel up there and everything."

"Cancel it," Stark airily said. "If you lose the deposit, I'll refund. Stay the night. Get a good night sleep and not risk the possibility of falling asleep at the wheel. What? Boston is like… five hours or so by car. Yeah… no. Just stay the night and your whole family can fly to Boston in the morning."

"I don't think my dad will agree," Michelle argued. Sleeping over at a guy's friend house was not something her traditional father would allow for his only daughter.

But Stark wouldn't accept her answer. "Call him. He might surprise you," he encouraged. "Especially when he learns that he can take a free flight." Stark gestured to her smartphone that stuck out of her pocket. "Go on."

"Tony—" Peter tried to step in, but Michelle was already too happy to prove Mr. Stark wrong.

She took out her phone and dialed her father's number. Not that he would answer anyway because he was in a meeting at the mom—

" _Michelle? What's wrong? Is everything okay?"_

Michelle startled upon hearing her father's voice. "Dad? What… I thought you were in a meeting?"

" _I am, but you're calling me. Is this not an emergency?"_

Oh shit. Her father thought she was in danger. "No, everything is fine," she assured him. "I'm calling because—" She took a quick glance to Stark, who wore a smug smile on his face, "—well, the people here are concerned about us driving late at night. They said I could spend the night here and in the morning, we could all take their plane to Boston. I told them that wasn't necessary, but they insisted I ask anyway."

There was a long pause on her father's end. Michelle could almost make out the sound of his pen tapping against his desk. She almost mouthed to Stark that she was right when her father responded, " _Do you want to_?"

"Do I want to what?"

" _Stay the night_."

This was not exactly how Michelle pictured the conversation to go. "I… well, I wouldn't mind, but I don't want to interfere with our—"

" _Honey—if you want to stay the night, that's fine. I know how much you missed Peter this past year and I know you are a responsible woman. Not like your brothers at that age. I'm not worried about you. You will make the smart choices. I want to make sure you are comfortable staying there._ "

Michelle's mouth dropped open. Is her father actually approving the idea? "Wait… are you saying you don't care if I stay over or not?"

" _Of course I do! I don't want you to stay if you feel uncomfortable or unsafe. I'll come pick you up this second if that was the case, but if you want to stay the night, that's fine too. Again, I trust you to make the right decision._ "

Michelle had no words to say to her father. Nothing, except her answer. "I would like to stay."

" _Okay, kiddo. That's fine. If you change your mind, call me. All right? Call me! I'll come and get you at any hour of the night. What time should we get there in the morning?"_

Michelle asked Stark, who advised between eight-thirty to nine. She passed the information onto her father and wished him a good-night. Stark, meanwhile, sported a winning smirk in her direction.

"Hey, Crockett?" he called to Peter. "Go get a set of extra sheets, blankets and pillows. You're going to need them."

Peter departed to get the extra bedding, leaving Michelle and Stark alone for their full frontal interrogation.

She waited for Peter to be out of earshot before turning on Stark. "What the hell are you doing?" she snapped.

Stark, in all his vanity, patronizingly brushed off her anger at him. "Trying to help you," he replied as he leaned up against the counter. "Young people's way of romanticizing one another just baffles me. When you like someone, you tend to want to spend more time with them. Not away." Tony clapped his hands together, before opening them up to the apartment around them. "And what did I do here? Made more time for you and Peter to be together."

Michelle wanted to bury her face in her long curls. "It's not like that."

"What? You don't like him anymore?"

That wasn't it. Not at all. Michelle enjoyed the last hour she spent with Peter. Even if it was babysitting. She daydreamed of spending evenings with Peter, going on dates and talking about everything and anything. But Peter wasn't just Peter. He was Spider-man. He would have duties and responsibilities as an Avenger, as a hero, to the public. Relationships based on intense experiences rarely ever worked out. And Michelle's read and seen enough troupes to know that it never ends well. Look how Stark's relationship status fluctuated because of his Iron Man duties. Michelle loved Peter. Not Spider-man. But, Peter Parker would always be Spider-man. Not that she blamed him or found fault in that. It just brought a lot of problems to a relationship.

But, Stark interpreted her silence as confirmation. "See, kiddo," he knowingly pointed at her. "I'm helping you out."

"Don't call me kiddo."

Stark's confident smirk slipped. "Okay, I know it's not exactly Paris like I promised," he said, "but it's a start. If you want to be with the kid—which you definitely do, I can tell—then don't give up."

Michelle stared, eyebrows furrowed in bemusement. "Are you giving me relationship advice?" she queried, scoffing. "You? Tony Stark? The billionaire  _playboy_?"

"Genius, superhero and philanthropist," he added. "And no, I'm giving you a warning."

"A warning?"

Before Stark could clarify, Peter returned with a stack of blankets, sheets and two pillows. "Hey! I'm back," he said, dropping the bedding on the couch. He noted their stressed stances. "Did I miss something?"

Stark patted Peter's shoulder. "Not at all, short stuff," he said. "Just reminding her that she can't exploit my jet while she's borrowing it. No jetting off to Paris." He gave her a secretive wink that only made Michelle bristle. "I'm going to go. Put Maria to bed and all that."

He headed to the door and said his farewell, before adding, "I'm rooting for you." And then he turned down the corridor away from the apartment.

Peter looked back to her, brows wrinkled in confusion. "What did he mean by that?"

Michelle sighed loudly, crossing her arms. "He's being a jackass," she grumbled her answer. "It's nothing. He's being Stark."

Peter dropped the subject. He asked if she wanted to watch a film. Rather than go to the theater, they stayed in the apartment, utilizing the television Ned envied. Thanks to Apple TV, Peter had access to Stark's film collection, to which he allowed Michelle to be the decision-maker. Michelle went off Peter's suggestion and went with an old classic,  _Jurassic Park_. Peter heated up popcorn and dimmed the lights to get a more cinema feel. They plopped on the couch and watched the film, with Peter rooting for the humans and Michelle rooting for the dinosaurs.

"It's not their fault!" Michelle disputed against Peter's claim the humans were the victims. "The humans brought them back to life. What did they expect would happen? A domesticated T-rex? Even domesticated lions attack their human caretakers."

"So that makes the two kids responsible for their trauma?" Peter queried.

"No—it means that people with power need to know when to quit before they screw over the next generation."

They finished the film, watching the dinosaurs continue their reign of terror (or heroics in Michelle's opinion). At the end of the film, they both concluded that the T-Rex was the ultimate hero of the story. The surprise twist at the end, that Michelle honestly didn't see coming.

With the film finished, Michelle wanted to know what Peter did when he was all by himself. What did he do for fun being caged in the glorified cell? Peter didn't appreciate her description, but from an outsider's viewpoint, it was exactly what the compound was for Peter. Maybe he didn't see it. Too blinded by all the flashy gadgets and amenities, along with superheroes surrounding him, but Michelle recognized the restrictions of freedom Peter had.

Peter gave her a daily schedule that started with him waking up early to train followed by school followed by whatever he wished to do. Sometimes it was working with Stark in the lab and other times it was hanging out with Captain America and Falcon on the basketball court or garage, where he was building his first motorcycle. Michelle wanted to see the motorcycle, but apparently, the garage was off-limits to her. Even to Peter, unless supervised. Peter figured it was because Tony didn't want him to ruin his valuable sport cars.

Instead of the garage, Peter showed her his lab. They left the residential building, heading directly to the building across the main circle. Peter carried a card with him, swiping it across keypads to grant them entry through the elevators and corridors. They came to a stop outside a door. It was labeled:  _Parker, Peter_.

Peter swiped his card and Michelle heard the door unlock. The lights beyond flickered on and an AI's voice answered to them upon entrance.

" _Good evening Peter, Michelle,_ " KAREN said to them as Peter closed the lab door behind them. " _Is Mr. Stark aware you are here?"_

"No, and let's keep it that way," Peter answered as he took Michelle's hand without asking and pulled her alongside to show off his laboratory. "Tony donated most of the equipment to me. It's all second-hand, but way,  _way_  better than the stuff at Midtown. And look!"

He showed her the Geiger counter, the hot plate with a steel stirrer ("Now, I have a machine to mix my chemicals to create my web fluid," Peter explained), arc welder and a drill press, among other things. Everything a science nerd dreamed of owning on his own. Michelle could almost hear Ned's stammer of awe and the faint squeak of everything around them. It was all modern, almost the latest, high-tech model of equipment.

Michelle stared at a waist-high table that projected 3D holographic images of designs Peter created. He was showing her how he could visually test and tweak the virtual mock-ups with a simple hand gesture. He displayed DUMBO's schematics, explaining what he planned to upgrade DUMBO to once he figured out the right coding.

"So… you're building another AI?" Michelle concluded.

Peter shook his head. "No, more like a, um, helper. Tony has two robots that help him in the lab," he said. "I figured I could have one for my lab or what not."

"Well, Harry thinks your robot is more like a dog."

"Yeah… I gotta fix that part in his coding. He's an excitable robot," Peter said, turning off the table. The holographic designs zapped away and Michelle only saw Peter's face across the table.

"So, that's all you do down here?" Michelle asked. "Work on DUMBO?"

"And one other thing, but I can't really talk about it."

Now, they were getting somewhere interesting. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Nothing."

His sudden secrecy only intrigued Michelle to learn more. She slid around the table, dropping in next to peter. She stared hard at his face, reading each crevice that dug into his youthful skin. "It's something to do with Spider-man," she said as it was the obvious answer. She didn't need his slight swallow to confirm it. "You were already vocal about the web fluids, which means it's something else… like your suit."

Peter's wide-struck eyes was the dead giveaway. "How did you know about the suit?" he inquired.

"Ned told me he had it after you disappeared," Michelle answered, recalling Ned clutching Peter's backpack to dear life after the shooting. " It also didn't help that Ned mentioned it earlier today and you elbowed him to be quiet. So, with all that evidence, figured it had to be that considering you were adamant about KAREN not wanting Mr. Stark to know you were in the lab."

Peter looked at her with wonder and appreciation. "You're scarily smart," he acknowledged. "Did you know that?"

"And you are blatantly obvious," Michelle returned with a disarmingly smile. "Now—where's the suit? Can I see it?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder to the door. He listened, quietly, not saying yes or no to Michelle's request. Then, he moved away from the table. "KAREN?" he called out to his AI. "Keep watch."

He hurried to one of the storage cabinets and yanked the door open. He dug through the cabinet, lifting up a floorboard as he pulled some kind of outfit out. Peter stood up straight, flapping the outfit out. Michelle drew closer and saw that it was the Spider-man suit.

He held it up for her to see. "I've been secretly working on it," he said. "Tony and the others don't know about it, so you can't say a word."

Michelle approached, examining the famed suit that served Queen's protector. It looked exactly as the same suit she saw in Washington DC, with only what appeared to be a sliver of metal woven in the fabrics. "Is metal in it?"

"Vibranium," Peter corrected. "Shuri worked on it behind my back for a few nights when she stayed here. She implemented vibranium in the suit."

Michelle almost forgot that Shuri stayed at the compound when she visited New York. She lived and shared a space with Peter. They were close. They took a lot of pictures together. Shuri claimed they were friends, but Michelle couldn't help but feel that twinge of jealousy when she remembered their trip to New York.

At the moment, Michelle opted to feign forgetfulness. "Oh… yeah, that's right. She stayed with you," she said. "Cool, so um, what does vibranim in your suit mean? Does it make you glitter in the sunlight?"

Peter favored her a dry chuckle. "No, it allows more protection. It can take on kinetic energy and physical impacts without injury. It's indestructible too, well, to a point."

Michelle grew intrigued. "Really?" she hummed in thought. "Okay, but how are you not weighed down or at least able to move. Won't that affect your flexibility?"

"No, it's pretty light actually."

"Really?" Michelle couldn't see it. How would carry a metal suit not affect his coordination?

"Don't believe me?"

"Just trying to imagine, that's all," Michelle responded.

Peter made a circular motion with his finger. "Turn around."

She understood what he meant. She groaned, but complied with his request. She waited with her back turned to him as Peter shuffled about behind her. A few minutes later, he gave her the okay to turn around again.

Peter changed from his casual attire into his Spider-man suit. It was slim on him. Fit him like it was a layer of skin. He looked impressive. It hid his age and identity well, giving him a suspenseful outlook. However, everyone in the world already knew Peter Parker as Spider-man. Still, seeing Spider-man was different than seeing Peter Parker. And that was the most disappointing thing for Michelle.

She couldn't see Peter's eyes. Or his smile. Or the way his nose scrunched up when upset. Or his hair that curled a bit when it got long.

She must have stared too long in silence because Peter started to shift his weight from foot to foot, acting a little jumpy. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I think you look like some kind of circus entertainer."

"What?!" Peter cried through the mask. "No—No, I don't."

Michelle felt her lips curl up. "Yeah, you do. Like one of those Las Vegas performers."

"And they have bulletproof suits?" Peter gestured to his high-tech suit.

"Nowadays they probably do."

Peter dropped his head back in exasperation, exposing the red webbed design on his neck. "Okay—well, what about this?"

He jumped. High up in the air that was considered impossible without assistance, and then he proceeded to do two full twists before landing in the exact spot he launched. With the mask on or off, Michelle knew Peter was smirking.

Michelle refused to act captivated. "A lot of acrobats can do that. And gymnasts."

"On their own?"

Michelle shrugged, knowing Peter had a point there. They all needed assistance to perform such a feat like a trampoline. "Still an act they can do," she reiterated.

Peter spent the next few minutes performing feats that no human could possibly accomplish. He demonstrated his "spider-sense" ability, able to dodge anything thrown at him with his back turned. He even reenacted the famous scene in the Matrix! Yet, Michelle remained impassive at all his stunts, refusing to give him the satisfaction that he impressed her.

Finally, he showed off her ability to stick to anything. He leapt to the ceiling, feet first, and dangled his body. "Can an acrobat or lion trainer do this?"

Michelle stared at up where his feet were planted before trailing down to the masked eyes. "I've seen them hang upside down before too," she quipped as she ambled her way to him. "Doesn't the blood rush to your head?"

"A little, but not too bad," he replied. "Guess it's a spider thing?"

Must be as he didn't let go from the ceiling. "Well, you know, if this whole superhero business doesn't go anywhere," she commented, "you at least have a back-up job at the circus."

"Hardee-har-har," Peter deadpanned, swaying on his feet. "You have to admit, MJ. It's pretty cool."

Yes. The suit and tricks were all cool additions. But it didn't make the person. "Can you take off the mask?"

"Err... why?"

"Because I want to  _see_  you."

Peter slipped the mask off. He remained hanging, his brown eyes solely on her. Her lips parted, to speak, but nothing came to her. She stared, memorizing every trace of Peter's face. He may have changed into a hero-celebrity, but Michelle still saw the boy she liked since the eighth grade. The Peter Parker that shared his pencil with her when hers broke. The Peter Parker who didn't whisper behind her back, debating whether she's a lesbian or a snob like the rest of the class. The Peter Parker who was kind enough to help pick up her belongings when her backpack split.

For Michelle, Peter Parker was the better person than Spider-man.

Inches now. That was how close they suddenly got. Michelle breathed in the light touch of cologne. She saw the soft speckle of freckles across his nose. His lips parted and for a few seconds, their breaths mingled. Michelle's heart fluttered as they drew closer...

"Everything okay in here?"

Michelle leapt in fright, shoving Peter from her in the process. Peter dropped from the ceiling and landed hard on the floor, staggered by the sudden appearance of Black Widow. They didn't even hear KAREN's warning or the door opening.

Peter, now rooted to the floor, blushed visibly in his cheeks as he bumbled in his speech. "N-Nat... what are you, um, what are you—why are you here?"

Black Widow arched a single brow at him. Her red hair shined like blood under the lights as she stood at the door, relaxed in her stance. She looked highly amused by Peter's fluster. "Saw the light on," she said. "It's nearly eleven. What are you guys doing up? And why are you wearing your Spider-man suit?"

"Um... I," Peter stopped and looked down at the suit. He panicked. "Nat! Please! Don't tell Tony. Please don't. Please! He'll take it away from me. Please... please Nat!"

Nat switched from Peter to Michelle. There was a sharp perception in the former assassin's eye. Michelle scooted back, but she didn't hide away. She kept her posture, one arm on her hip and the other wrapped around her stomach. She refused to redirect her gaze from Black Widow, holding it as she watched the former assassin dismantle her in a single look.

The former assassin turned to Peter. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said with a knowing smile. "All I know is that the light is on while two teenagers were sound asleep."

Black Widow backed out of the room and closed the door behind her. Peter didn't say a word. He breathed, sharply, for a few moments before he yelled up at the ceiling. "KAREN! I told you to keep watch!"

" _Yes. I kept watch_."

"That's not..." Peter grumbled at her defense. He looked back to Michelle, still a bit flustered by the intrusion. "Sorry about... all of that. Um... I'm just gonna get changed."

Michelle turned her back and waited until Peter stripped off his suit and put back on his day clothes. He lifted the cabinet's floorboards again, stuffing his suit in its secret location. They didn't say a word to one another. They quickly headed out of the lab and back to the Peter's apartment.

* * *

 A heavy silence fell between them. Michelle refused to look at Peter, afraid to see something in his eyes. She sat on the couch, fingers tracing the outline of the couch's cushion to occupy her strung nerves. Her mind whirled, replaying those last moments and reanalyzing the whole situation. It was a lapse moment. Nothing was going to happen. It was in her head. Nothing. They're friends. Just friends.

The couch dipped and Michelle realized Peter sat down as well. He didn't say anything to her. The void was a cruelty they both inflected onto one another, but neither made any effort to end it.

Michelle wished she never agreed to stay the night. This was all Stark's fault.

"You want to... um..."

Peter started talking, but fumbled back to the awkward silence. He sucked in a deep breath and Michelle wished she could say something to him. Anything at this point.

"I, um... I can get you a set of pajamas," Peter offered, springing up from the couch. "Wait right here."

He sprinted off, leaving Michelle alone on the couch before she could say a word of gratitude. No longer bearing to remain seated, she got up from the couch to wander around the living room. It was something to do. Something to loosen her jittered nerves.

She started at the bookcase, looking at the pictures in the frames. Each photo captured a different face at a different time. One was a picture of Peter as a toddler, held up by the uncle Peter admired so much. Michelle examined Ben Parker's face. He was quite young in the photograph. Probably in his early thirties. Peter looked like him. She went onto the next picture. It was of May and Ben, younger than the first photograph. Twenties, Michelle decided as she continued on to the next photograph. It was of Peter again, but with a different couple. He must have not been much older than four years old in the photograph. If Michelle thought he looked similar to his uncle, then Peter looked strikingly alike to the man in the photograph. Same hair, same eyes, same cheekbones and same goofy smile when excited. The only difference was that Peter wasn't as big as the man beside him. Rather, his body frame was similar to the woman on Peter's other side. Slim, not muscular or broad. Almost petite, but athletic. And the nature in the woman's eyes... it was the same as Peter.

Peter's parents, she concluded. Michelle hardly heard anything about them. Peter never mentioned them. Well, he may have mentioned them once or twice, but he mostly spoke of his aunt and uncle. Michelle studied the dead Parkers image a little longer. They looked like a nice couple. A loving family, who clearly adored their only son. A shame they don't know him now.

"They're my parents."

Michelle didn't jump at his voice. Her heart jolted, but not her feet. Peter quietly stepped beside her, staring at the photograph of his parents. "Before you ask," he said, "they died in a plane crash. I was only five at the time of their deaths." He took the frame off the shelf and held it in his hand. "I don't have much memory of them. A few flashes here and there. Nothing definite."

Michelle noticed the distant look in Peter's eyes like he was trying to recall a moment. But, he resigned. No luck. Peter put the photograph back on the shelf. "They were scientists, you know," he said to Michelle. "Chemistry was their specialty. At least, it was for my dad. Uncle Ben said that's where I got my knack for chem."

"You look like your dad," Michelle observed. "Can definitely tell you're a Parker."

"Yeah, the Parker men all look the same," Peter said with a smile. "Something my aunt said when I was growing up."

A small frown formed as he studied the faces of his deceased family. He abruptly turned away from the photographs. "So, eh, I have pajamas for you. They're clean. Sorry if they are a bit big."

He passed them onto Michelle. They looked a little big, but she figured it was better than her pair of jeans at the moment. "Thanks," she said, accepting the clothes. "Um... I'll go get ready."

She went to the bathroom and quickly changed out of her clothes. The pajamas were big on her, but not terribly. Enough to pass without it looking awkward. She folded up her day clothes and exited from the bathroom.

Peter was trying to set up the foldout bed. He struggled with the sheets. The corners kept snapping off much to Peter's disdain. Michelle put her clothes aside and grabbed the slipped sheet. Together, they put the sheet on the pullout mattress and got the rest of the bed ready to sleep.

Michelle sat on the edge of the bed. To her surprise, the foldout bed was comfortable. Quite soft. "Thanks," she said. "For the pajamas and the bed."

"Oh, you're not sleeping here," Peter corrected her. "I am. You have my room."

That was not what Michelle expected. "That's okay. I'm fine here," she assured him, bouncing a bit on the mattress. "I can sleep on this."

"I'm sure you can," Peter agreed, "but I prefer if you got the nicer bed."

Michelle didn't get up from the foldout. "I don't want to kick you out of your own room," she stated. "I can sleep out here. It's not a problem."

"I would feel better if you slept in my room. So, I'll sleep here," Peter insisted, jumping on the bed. The pillows bounced in response. "See? Already claimed it."

Michelle accepted her loss and got up from the bed. "Fine," she conceded the battle to him. "Where's this room of yours?"

Peter led her down the hallway to the door on the left. It was bigger than his old room. He had a full-size bed, desk littered with papers and books. A Lego set off to the side and a miniature library collection on his bookcase. Even DUMBO rested in the corner, before whirling back to life upon their entry. He zoomed right up to them, circling around Peter's feet as he tried to shoo the robot aside.

Harry was right. It acted very much like a dog.

"KAREN is programmed to this room as well," Peter informed her, once he got DUMBO to settle. "If you need anything, just ask her and she'll help."

Michelle slowly nodded as she eyed the ceiling for any signs of surveillance. She didn't see anything. "Thanks," she said, turning back to Peter. "I guess this is good-night then?"

Peter licked his lips, nervously. "Um… yeah, yeah," he tittered, backing up to the door. He hit his shoulder on the doorframe. "Just, um, let KAREN know when you want to wake up."

Michelle gave him a thumbs-up. "Thanks," she said, suspiciously eyeing the ceiling again and wondering if KAREN was listening in on them. "Good-night, Peter."

Peter didn't leave. "MJ," he began, crossing and then uncrossing his arms. "About what happened… I don't—"

"It's okay," Michelle interrupted, not wishing to rehash what occurred in his lab. "I know you don't want to work in a circus."

Crestfallen, Peter numbly nodded. "Yeah... yeah, that's what I, um, wanted you to know," he said, doing his best to smile. "I'll see you in the morning?"

Michelle squeezed her backpack close to her chest, where her heart drummed. "Yeah. In the morning."

Peter left, taking DUMBO with him, and closed the door. Michelle closed her eyes and inhaled. She should have asked her father to pick her up.

She dropped her belongings on Peter's chair and climbed into bed. Covers pulled over, she rested her head on the pillow. She scrunched her eyes close, demanding sleep to invade her waking thoughts. She held on for a few minutes only to find herself still awake in Peter's bedroom and breathing in the sheets that smelled of him.

Damn it! She was not going to get a good-night sleep after all. 


	20. Steve Rogers II

“How do the handlebars feel? Good enough grip? Or do we need to move them?”

Steve waited as Peter tested out the handlebars of the motorcycle. He studied the boy’s hold, thinking he needed to move the bars closer. He tapped Peter on the shoulder to indicate for him to hop off. Peter slipped off the half-finished motorcycle.

Steve took the wrench and loosen the bolts to maneuver the handlebars into a better position for the kid. Once situated, he told Peter to hop back on and test it. “Better?”

“Yeah. Better,” Peter agreed and he got off the motorcycle, admiring his new ride. “I can’t wait to ride this around. Looks cool, doesn’t it?”

Steve examined the whole motorcycle. It needed more work. The frames were quite visible and its exhaust pipe needed cleaning. The seat was a simple metal bar. No cushion. No coverings either. But, he guessed it was cool enough. The fact Peter was excited about it made Steve happy enough.

“It’s a fine motorcycle,” Steve concluded with an easy grin. “You want to get the seat?”

Peter went to the workbench, digging through the boxes until he pulled out a seat. He hurried back, cradling the seat as he rocked on his feet. “Got it!”

Steve instructed Peter on attaching the seat. Peter listened closely, following the instructions to the point. He observed Peter securing the rear of seat to the fender with a stock ¼-20 fender screw. Peter didn’t need Steve’s assistance in tightening it. The boy was as strong as him, possible stronger.

Peter checked the seat’s sturdiness, satisfied that it was secured. “I can’t wait to show this to MJ,” he said, squatting down to double-check the nuts and bolts. “She’s going to be jealous.”

“MJ, huh?” Steve said, switching tools. “Is this the girl that slept over the other night?”

“She’s a friend.”

Steve laughed. “Okay.”

Peter picked his head up from the other side. “What? She’s a friend. An old friend.”

“You said that.”

Peter pinched his mouth together to a tight pout. “And I mean it,” he said, cheeks burning a little. “Besides, she’s not into me like that.”

Steve dug through a box of spare parts. “I didn’t say she was,” he said. “I only agreed with you.”

The boy glimpsed at him from the other side. “Oh,” he said upon realizing he may have gone too defensive. “Well, um… can I have the wrench?”

Steve slid the tool to him as he plucked out a set of mirrors that needed to be straightened. “Was it good to see them? Your friends, I mean,” he asked Peter. “What did you and your friends do?”

Peter tightened something on his side. “Yeah. It was good to hang-out with them. Been awhile with all the stuff happening around here,” he replied, dropping the wrench and the rag to shine something. “We just hung-out. You know? Showed them around, went in the pool, tried out the obstacle course—”

“Which one?”

There were two obstacle courses that Steve was aware of. The outdoor one that was designed to test enhanced humans rather than ordinary humans. The indoor course was more flexible. Steve had a suspicious feeling he already knew the answer to his question though.

Peter didn’t lift his head when he answered. “Oh, um, the outdoor one,” he said. “We were returning back home and they saw it, so I did a quick demonstration. No big deal.”

Steve smiled a little. “Did your friends try it?”

“Ned and Harry did. MJ didn’t. She thought it was pointless when she could just walk down the course on the grass.”

“Clever girl,” Steve said, rising up to his feet and went to the front of the motorcycle. He measured the length for the mirrors. “How did Ned and Harry do?”

“Their best.”

“You sound like Stark,” Steve said, mentally noting where he wanted the mirrors. “You had fun?”

Peter nodded. “Yep. We sure did.” He jumped to his feet, a streak of black running down his finger. “Don’t we need a windshield or something too?”

“You can have one, but it’s not necessary,” Steve answered. “Do you want one?”

Peter thought for a minute. He shook his head. “Nah. It’s fine without it.”

“Then come and help me add your mirrors,” Steve ordered, handing him one of the mirrors. “Keep it this length from the middle.”

Steve showed Peter the distance and they both worked on attaching their respective mirrors. They worked in silence, except for the radio playing classical music. Peter claimed that it wasn’t classical. Simply ancient songs. Steve gave him a grave look before the boy muttered an apology.

Once they hooked the mirrors, Steve helped Peter attach the safety lights to the front and back of the motorcycle. Peter was an easy kid to teach. He listened well and asked questions. He threw out ideas and Steve let him test his theories out to better learn from his mistakes. Steve understood why Tony liked having Peter in the lab. The kid was brilliant and enjoyable to be around when tinkering with machines.

The safety lights were set up and Steve checked on the wiring to ensure the lights worked properly come nightfall. Peter kneels next to him. His eyes are ever watching, observing, learning and imagining. He assisted Steve by filling up the tank with fuel and measuring the oil levels. Steve double-checked the frames, clutch and brakes. All in working order.

By early evening, Steve and Peter stood up, backing away to admire the newly constructed motorcycle before them.

Peter’s eyes glowed. “Oh man…” he uttered in awe. “I can’t wait to ride this around. Do you think I can give it a test try? You know? Just ride it around on the driveway?”

It wouldn’t hurt to check to see if everything is running smoothly. “Okay, but away from Stark’s cars,” Steve said. “I don’t want him to get mad at you.”

The kid pushed his motorcycle through the garage to the open door, reaching the edge when he stopped. Steve held on to the motorcycle as Peter climbed on. “Okay… now,” Steve said. “You remember what you need to do, right?”

“Turn on the kill switch?”

“Asking or telling?”

Peter promptly flipped the switch to the ‘on’ position.

“Good,” Steve said. “Now, the key.”

Peter twisted the key in the ignition. Steve then checked what gear Peter was in. Neutral. Good. “Now, always be in neutral when you hit the start button. Go ahead. Press the button.”

Peter moved his thumb over the button and added pressure. They listened to the engine clink and clank to life before it let out a gentle purr. Sounded right.

“Do a little twist on the throttle here. Make sure the fuel is getting into the cylinders,” Steve tapped Peter’s right hand. “A little. Or you may go flying.”

He gave the throttle a slight. The engine purred louder. Sounded perfect.

Peter beamed. “Okay… now what?” he asked. “Do I just go? Or…”

“You have to let it idle for a bit. Or else you risk the chance of ruining the engine.”

Peter slumped at the prospect of waiting. His fingers tapped along the handlebars, listening to the engine grow louder in its first minutes of life.

Steve believed it was long enough. “I’m going to lift the kickstand up,” he warned Peter. “Have a good control of the bike?”

Peter nodded and held the motorcycle tight as Steve kicked up the stand. “Steady,” Steve said again. “Pull the clutch lever. Good and press the shifter down to first gear. Yeah. Like that.”

He watched Peter follow through his instructions. The engine ready to take off. “Release the clutch slowly,” he instructed as Peter slipped his fingers off the clutch. The motorcycle started to roll forward. “Good! Good!”

“What do I do now?” asked Peter as they moved down the driveway.

“I’m going to let go of the bike,” Steve answered, “and you are going to gently twist the throttle. When it gets momentum, put your feet up on the pegs right here. See?”

Peter nodded. “Okay. Okay!” he said over the noise. “I got this.”

Steve walked a little more with him before he let go of the bike. Peter twisted on the throttle. A bit too hard. The kid’s motorcycle jerked and Peter’s body tensed for a split second, before he got it back and under control. His feet were still dragging along the pavement, refusing to put them on the pegs.

“Pegs!” Steve yelled. “Feet on the pegs, Peter!”

Peter lifted his feet and the motorcycle picked up speed. Steve watched, his leaning on the balls of his feet. He waited for action, eyes guarding Peter as he rode down the driveway on his first motorcycle. He swore he heard hoots of laughter from the kid as he turned the handlebars to get the motorcycle to turn around and back to Steve.

It was a wobbly attempt. Peter overcorrected before he had to grab the brakes because he was about to fall right off the bike. Steve rushed over and took control of the bike. He forced the kickstand down and turned the engine off.

“Hey! You okay?” Steve asked.

When he glanced to Peter, the kid’s face was split in a wide grin. “It works! Did you see how I was able to shift from first gear to second gear?”

Steve noticed it. “Yeah, but you forgot to switch the gear back down when you slowed to turn around,” he said. “Overall, though, I think you’re a gifted rider. And, I think your new motorcycle works just fine.”

Peter fisted his palm in excitement. “Oh—MJ is going to be jealous!” he said, sliding off the motorcycle. “Hey—do you think I can take this out on the road? Maybe this weekend?”

“Not so fast, son,” Steve calmed the boy’s excitement. “We still need to do some more testing. We know the engine is capable for speeds under twenty-five miles per hour, but what about higher speeds? Plus, you need a license plate and an actual motorist’s license before you take this on public highways.”

That didn’t deflate Peter’s mood. “Okay. That’s only three things,” he said. “I can do that. Hey? Why don’t we test it out on the airstrip? That’s perfect to see how the engine handles speeds over fifty.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Steve agreed, “but not tonight. It’s getting late.”

The sky was already a purplish glow. The sun a haze on the horizon as it settled for bed. Steve had Peter push his motorcycle back into the garage and clean up their workbench. Finished cleaning their mess, Peter threw a tarp over his motorcycle to protect it.

“Hey! Once I get all those things, maybe we could do a road trip to the city?” Peter said, catching up with Steve as they headed back to the residential hall. “Or something like that.”

Steve forced a smile, hiding the knowledge he carried. “Sure,” he said, “but until then, practice here in the compound.”

Peter heaved a sigh, disappointed as he longingly looked afar. “Fine. I’ll just practice on the mini-track here.”

Steve furrowed his brows in though. “Mini-track?”

“The loop in front of the main building,” Peter pointed over to the roundabout outside the Avengers’ Hall.

“Ah… I see,” Steve observed. “Okay, well, wait until I’m there with you. Can’t have you on the motorcycle without supervision.”

Peter thanked him again, before high-tailing it back to his own apartment. Steve watched the boy run off, freely unburden by the knowledge that nearly welded Steve to the ground he walked. Steve took in a breath. The sad part of it all was that the kid didn’t even know the full truth of his sentencing.

* * *

Next morning, Steve sat alone, drinking his coffee as he merely looking over the glided landscape. Sam hadn’t returned from his trip to Washington DC. He stayed for the week to visit old friends and family. That meant Steve had mornings to himself.

Until another individual joined him.

“Again?” Tony strode across the lounge. Straight to the coffee pot. “When is Sam the Falcon returning to care for you, eh?”

Steve humored him with a quick smile. “He’ll be back this weekend,” he said. “As for the reason why I’m here, you already know.”

Tony shook the coffee pot. “Yeah,” he grumbled as he heard only a light splash from inside the pot. “Coffee’s cold and barely any left. You know—a decent person would make another pot for other people.”

Tony changed filters and added coffee grounds. He filled it with water and turned it on. The machine gurgled and he leaned against the counter in wait. “It’s too damn early to be up.”

“Then why are you up?” Steve asked.

“Because I kept having this fear that all my coffee would be gone,” Tony quipped. “Turns out to be a valid fear.”

Steve raised his mug in salute to Tony. “Yeah, well, it’s the best coffee around here.”

“Cost me forty dollars a pound. Better be damn good coffee.”

They added nothing more. Since the fallout and somewhat rocky reunion, they hardly spoke to one another unless it involved Peter. Otherwise, the small talks they shared lasted a minute. Tops.

“How is the whole motorcycle thing coming along?” Tony asked.

And they switched to Parker as expected. Steve took a drink of his coffee. “We finished the bike last night,” he announced. “Need to do a few more tests on the engine before deeming it completely safe.

“He’s a natural, though,” Steve continued, turning away from the window to Tony. “He is excited to take the bike for a ride. Particularly with a girl named MJ.”

“Really?” Tony cocked his brows up in surprise. “He thinks a motorcycle would impress a girl?”

Here they go again. Anytime Steve hung out with Peter, Tony was there to bring conflict. “What’s wrong with a motorcycle?” Steve asked, waiting to hear Tony’s ridiculous response.

“They’re lame.”

Steve turned around in his seat. “You own a motorcycle!”

“Of course,” Tony snarked. “I also own give or take ten cars. Plus a jet. That makes me an expert in this subject.”

“The subject of cool?” Steve said with bafflement.

“Well, obviously that, but I meant on the subject of what girls find more attractive,” Tony said as the coffee dinged its readiness. “They are far more attractive to a guy who owns a car.”

Steve snorted, shaking his head in ridiculousness. “Are you serious?” he asked. “This is the debate you want to have?”

Tony shrugged. “Just saying,” he said, nonchalantly. “Don’t understand why Underoos wants to learn to ride a motorcycle when cars are the way to go. In my experience, that is.”

“Your experience?” Steve questioned with raised brows. “With vehicles or women?”

“Both.” Tony threw jested smile at him. Considering Tony was a playboy and had plenty of girls on his arms before Pepper, Steve imagined Tony knew far more than he did. After all, the only woman that Steve came close to dating was Peggy.

Tony reached for a mug as he added. “Besides, MJ prefers a jet.”

Steve’s eyebrows quizzically furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing old man,” Tony brushed aside. He grabbed the coffee pot’s handle and poured. “Anyway… Petey can’t even ride it out anywhere. Kind of beats the purpose of owning one.”

Steve exhaled, remembering the agreement they all made a few weeks back after the incident with Deadpool and Thaddeus Ross. “I actually want to talk to you about that.”

Tony lowered his mug. Dark eyes suspiciously narrowed on him. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Tony—we can’t keep the kid grounded,” Steve said, ignoring Tony’s wish. He rose up from the table to properly face his old friend. “Three weeks and not once has he set foot off the premises. It’s internment!”

“Jesus, Cap! We’re not Nazis!” Tony stressed, riled by the insinuation. “And we’re not holding him here against his will. He lives here. Full-time. With his Aunt Hottie.”

“So? He still can’t walk out of here.”

“That’s because the last time he did, someone shot him, beat him up and he was at the mercy of two lunatics,” Tony listed off in a great huff. “No—Peter stays in the compound unless one of us goes with him. That was the deal we all made, including you, might I add.”

Steve remembered the deal they all agreed to. Peter was not allowed out of the compound unless one of the Avengers was with him. That included visiting friends, going to basketball games or even grocery shopping with his aunt. Either he, Tony, Sam, Nat, Wanda, Rhodey or Vision came with them, rotating out to not act a suspicious.

Not that Peter went out a lot. He spent a few days recuperating from his wounds, which forced him to miss a basketball game at Madison Square Gardens with his friends. Apparently, a friend’s father got them tickets. Instead, Peter watched it on the screen along with himself and Sam. They tried to get into the spirit, having popcorn and hot dogs along with soda all while cheering for their team. But, it wasn’t the same as being with your actual friends.

After his wounds healed, Peter’s aunt convinced Tony to let Peter’s friends visit him here. Tony was hesitant at the idea, but Pepper twisted his arm and he agreed. Albeit, on a few conditions. The friends agreed to Tony’s conditions and they spent the day with him at the compound while the Avengers were away to handle the secretive case against Norman Osborn.

Since then, Peter repeatedly asked Steve to assist him in building his motorcycle. And that’s what they did. Peter kept busy by building his motorcycle from junk parts and scrap metal that Tony also reluctantly bought for the kid. He was a focused individual and they spent long hours in that garage getting all the pieces together.

It wasn’t until last night that Steve understood Peter’s hurry in finishing it. “The kid knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That he’s being trapped here.”

Tony scrunched his face in dubious thought. “Look—I know the kid is a smart cookie, but he can’t know the _exact_ reason,” he contended. “And again, he’s not trapped here. It’s not that we revoke any of his privileges or deny him to go see his friends. He can go outside the compound if he wants to.”

“Unless he’s being babysat,” Steve countered. “No sixteen year old wants to have an adult tagging along with him everywhere they go. Even if it’s an Avenger.”

Tony smirked. “Then you don’t know Peter that well.”

Steve helplessly shrugged to Tony’s statement. “Maybe, but I spent the past few days with him,” he said. “All this talk about wanting to ride off... that’s usually a sign that they want to get away.”

Tony digested that comment with a deep breath and arms crossed. “Okay. I see what you mean,” he said, taking out his phone.

Steve waited as Tony finished whatever he was doing on his phone. “What are you doing?” he questioned.

Tony held up a finger. “Okay… and done,” he smiled and closed his phone, pocketing it. “I just booked two courtside seats to the LA Lakers vs. Knicks game out in California. Leave tomorrow night. Stay for the weekend. That should be a nice break of scenery.”

Steve rolled his eyes, dropping his forehead in his hand. “That wasn’t what I—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his thoughts because the door burst open and May Parker stormed into the lounge.

Eyes ablaze, she marched straight up to Tony without even a glimpse at Steve. Crestfallen, Tony anticipated put aside his mug for another berating. “If this has to do with—”

May shoved a tablet to Tony. Hard enough to almost push Tony back against the counter. “Have you read it?”

Tony grabbed the tablet and glanced down. His eyes narrowed, mouth taut and pressed into a straight line as his jaw tightened. “Son of a bitch…” he muttered, wiping a hand over his goatee.

“What is it?” Steve asked, stepping over to them. “What’s wrong?”

He moved beside Tony and read over his shoulder. On the tablet was an full blown article titled, “ _PETER PARKER BRUTALIZES FORMER MILITARY GENERAL”_

Oh no. Steve snuck a look to May. She stood in front of them, arms crossed and waiting impatiently to blow off steam. Steve went back to the article. It was all about Thaddeus Ross’s home invasion and assault. But rather than blame it on Deadpool, Ross pointed the fingers at Peter. The article quoted Ross saying, “’ _I open my door and there was Parker. Then, he attacked me._ ’” There were even pictures of Ross in his hospital bed, acting like he was in agony.

None of it looked good. “Has Peter seen this?” Steve asked.

May shook her head. “He’s still asleep,” she answered. “He’s going to freak when he reads it.”

“Only if he reads this garbage,” Tony said, unconcerned.

“It’s all over the news!” May spiraled in a shout. “Even the morning hosts are talking about it. Everyone’s talking about it!”

She yanked the tablet out of Tony’s hands. She flipped through the tabs and she was right. Almost every media outlet was talking about the article. Comments were popping up underneath the articles and videos. People discussing the content, arguing on its authenticity.

“It’s _The Daily Bugle_ ,” Tony remarked, refusing to be riled. “Everyone knows its tabloid shit. No one will believe it.”

“That’s not the point!” May snapped, face red and eyes shiny.

“I know it’s not the point,” Tony said with an exhausted sigh. “The article was meant to damage Peter’s reputation. It’s a revenge piece. And a libel piece too. We’ll sue.”

But May shook her head, strands of her hair flying in her face. “You _still_ don’t get it,” she cried. “Even if it’s all untrue, Peter’s still going to blame himself! He’s going to…”

She stopped talking. Her voice croaked out and her hands covered her face. Steve heard her choking back a sob, breaths ragged. The stress wound her up, depleting all the strength in her reserve.

Steve walked up to comfort her, but May stepped away and held out her hand. “No... just… just give me a minute,” she said, hoarse. “Please?”

Steve backtracked and stayed put, watching with a heavy heart as May calmed herself with deep breaths.

Rather than let silence droll on, Tony restarted talking. “I’ll notify Pepper. She knows how to handle PR disasters like this,” he said, his phone in his hand and typing away. “What about Big E? Does he know that his former boss became a canary? Hell—I thought he was keeping an eye on that guy?”

May nodded, rubbing her eyes. “Yeah. He’s the one who warned me about it.”

“Warned you?” Tony asked, thinking he misheard.

“He received word from one of the reporters that the head editor okayed the piece,” May explained, shakily. “He called me to give me a heads up before Peter saw it. Apparently, Ross managed to trick his guards that he was talking to his lawyers. Everett is charging him with obstruction of justice.”

Tony scrunched his face in dissatisfaction. “Okay. Okay,” he mumbled to himself. He looked to Steve. “Pepper will handle the backlash of this. I’ll get a hold of my lawyers. Get them to prep a libel suit against the newspaper and Ross. Get control of this story and turn it around back on Ross.”

He waited, taking a breath to receive affirmation from Peter’s aunt. But Aunt May stayed silent, eyes drawn and deep crevices formed around her face. She looked lost. Far out and away from them.

“Ms. Parker?” Steve called to her.

That got her attention again. She spun her head to them, eyes glossy and fatigue aging her appearance. “When will it end?”

“Excuse me?” Tony asked.

“When will all this stop?” May repeated her question, her voice tightening. It was close to hysteria. “He’s just a boy! He doesn’t—he’s been through enough already. He doesn’t need more shit!”

While her language was reproachable, Steve shared the same sentiment. For a boy of sixteen, too much bad has happened to him, starting with the loss of his parents to the loss of his own freedom. He didn’t need his reputation to be damaged along the way. The same reputation that Tony built to get the public to adore him. And now, this threw a wrench. A chance for the public to turn on the boy. To despise him or even doubt his innocence.

May snuffled, releasing a long, somber sigh. “I wish he was never Spider-man.”

Before Steve or Tony could say a word to her, she walked out.

A beat later.

“Well, good thing we’re heading out to California,” commented Tony.

Steve dropped his chin to his chest. Unbelievable.


	21. Norman Osborn II

The fire roared upon impact. The crystal glass shattered against the brick fireplace, but Norman didn’t give a damn about it. He could buy a thousand more of those at any store. What he can’t get nor replicate was Peter Parker.

His accomplice failed. He had one job. One  _fucking_  job!

Norman raked his fingers through his hair, grabbing the ends as he paced madly in his office. How hard was it to capture a boy?

Apparently, it was difficult enough to fail. Norman contacted Bullseye again, wanting updates as to what went wrong, but he received a dead-end silence from the mercenary. Nothing.

Weeks of silence and Norman figured Bullseye failed or ran off with his money. Worst part was that Peter never made an appearance either. No public mentions of him. He didn’t even attend the basketball game that Norman splurged tickets on for his son’s “friends”. He asked Harry about Peter’s absence, but Harry merely shrugged and said he didn’t know.

Norman doubted his son’s honesty. Harry knew. He simply wanted to be a brat. His immaturity was the reason Norman could never take his son seriously. Norman nonetheless gave the tickets to Harry and his tagalongs, knowing that he could not back out after making such a fuss to ensure they all came.

It wound Norman up that Peter didn’t show.

Of course, Norman soon got the explanation behind Peter’s vanishing act. Norman woke up one morning, grabbed the paper and coffee, and sat down to start his morning. And right there. Dead center that took up the whole front page was a title that read “ _PETER PARKER BRUTALIZES FORMER MILITARY GENERAL_.” A massive picture of former Secretary Ross laying on his cot in agony was underneath the caption.

Norman pored over the article. His fingers pinched the newspaper ever so tightly the further he got into the article. It became apparent on what occurred that night. It seemed Bullseye truly failed in his mission. That imbecilic! It infuriated Norman as he paid good money for the mercenary to retrieve the boy.  

He was aware that the article was garbage. Norman  _knew_  Peter. He understood the boy’s psyche. Peter didn’t lay a hand on Ross. Those battered injuries were from another, but Norman couldn’t quite believe that Bullseye partook in it. Why would he? He had no quarrel with the general. And why would Bullseye take Peter to Ross unless Ross put out an order as well?

No. That was ridiculous. It didn’t make sense why the mercenary would turn on his benefactor. No, this was another individual. Another mercenary who interfered with the plans. The mysterious mercenary must have took out Bullseye and hunted down Ross. Which left an unknown variable Norman didn’t want.

At least Norman learned of the reason behind Peter’s sudden absence. Stark must have locked Peter up in that upstate tower of his, denying all freedom and rights.

God—he  _hated_  Stark. That pompous ass always stole everything from employees to ideas. Norman was a far better company that Stark Industries; and yet, Stark continued to dominate and out-shine in everything they competed. Not only that, Stark had Peter wrapped around his finger.

Peter falsely idolize Stark. He’s seen the pictures of Stark and Peter together. The way Peter tilted his head back to look up to Stark. Eyes shiny and brilliant as he listened intensely to whatever Stark gabbled on about. The boy could do better.  _Should_  do better.

That weekend after the article’s release, there was a flurry of counter-articles about the incident, followed with a libel suit against the newspaper and Ross himself. Ross determination to ruin Peter’s reputation seemed to have backfired, with a few exceptions to those closely tied to certain organizations.

Norman was in his office, reviewing over schematics when he decided to turn on the television as background noise. The television was on for a few seconds before his thoughts were disrupted by an announcer commentating on Stark  _and_ Peter Parker. Norman snapped his eyes to the television. Stark and Peter sat in courtside seats, watching the Knicks versus the Lakers play a basketball game. At one point, Stark leaned over and spoke to Peter, who started to laugh at whatever Stark said.

Peter looked happy. A bit stressed, but happy enough to relax in Stark’s presence. The announcer kept mentioning Stark and Peter, giving a blurb about the notorious article. Norman leaned against his desk, observing his creation’s interaction. He watched Peter’s wondered face as he cheered on the Knicks with Stark. Noticed the way Peter engaged with the players a bit, catching a runaway ball with his fingertips.

The crowd roared and clapped at the feat, entertained by Peter’s talent.

Norman bristled when Stark ruffled Peter’s hair. A fatherly gesture that irked Norman to rip the television right off the wall. The destruction of his television did not satisfy him. He needed more. He needed… he had to get his creation back. Away from Stark and those other leechers!

Norman took a deep breath and centered himself. He returned to his desk and looked up a number. He dialed and waited until the other line answered.

“I am in need of your services.”

* * *

Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Children was not Norman’s choice of a bar. Nor meeting place. But the hired mercenary insisted to meet there. Norman kept on his trench coat upon entry, hiding his suit from the patrons all dressed in biker attire of leather, chains and black clothes.

Norman maneuvered his way to the bar, avoiding any contact with the low-life patrons. No one looked his way. They ignored him just as much as he ignored them. He got to the bar where a curly-haired fatty shared some lewd joke to a drunk.

Norman sat on a stool and waited. He arrived early, checking over his shoulder to see if his…  _buyer_  arrived.

“It would be easier if you just call out the douche’s name.”

Norman looked back around and saw that the fatty bartender stood in front of him. His yellow plaid was wrinkled and smelled of piss and ash. Norman recoiled from the bartender, nose curled up as he eyed him disgustedly.

“What do you want?” the bartender asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then you are in the wrong place,” the bartender stated. “Either order a drink or get the hell out of my bar.”

Norman glared up at the man, not appreciating the hostilities of the lowly man. “Do you know who the fuck I am?”

The bartender took a moment to study him. “Class A douche?”

Norman didn’t like the man’s words. Or tone. Or face.

Before his anger was unleashed on the fat man, another patron stepped up to the counter. “It’s all right Weasel,” he said to the bartender. “He’s a possible client of mine.”

Weasel the bartender nodded to the patron and scooted on his way down the bar. Norman turned to meet with the mercenary he hired. A burly man took the stool next to him. Unlike the others in the hepatitis bar, he was dressed in a suave suit. His skin was unusual. He lost all pigment to the point he was as white as snow all around. Even his white hair, slicked back, blended into his scalp that he almost appeared bald.

The mercenary noticed Norman looking over him and smiled. His teeth were as sharp as a dog’s! “You aren’t the first person to stare at me,” he said and he held a finger up to Weasel the bartender. “So… I was told you have a specific job. One that requires… a strong conviction.”

The bartender returned with a pint of dark ale before he disappeared to give them privacy. In fact, there were no other patrons around them. It was like they were in their own little office.

The mercenary took to a draught of his ale. “The name’s Tombstone,” he introduced himself, but he did not offer to shake hands. Norman didn’t want to. “That’s all the personal information you need.”

“Fair enough,” Norman responded as he made no plans to share his personal details either. “Does this mean you’re accepting the deal?”

Tombstone showed his pearly teeth again. “Taskmaster told me it was a once in a lifetime opportunity,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Told me it could be quite the challenge for me too.”

“Maybe,” Norman said, fingers slowly tapped on the bar. “My demands are specific. There can be no faults. I want exactly what I ask. And in order for me to get what I want, I need to make sure that the person I hire won’t fuck me over like the last mercenary. So, what makes you so goddamn special to do the job?”

Tombstone’s smile faltered. Only for a bit. His razor teeth pinched his lower lip before he laughed. “Ever heard about the murder of Ozzy Montan?”

Norman had to think for a moment. “No.”

“Exactly,” Tombstone finished off his pint. “I am aware that your original choice was unavailable. Hell—I haven’t seen Deadpool around this joint for some time. Apparently, he’s off on some personal quest or some shit.

“Don’t be mistaken though,” Tombstone’s tone turned darker. “I’m not Deadpool. That twat is annoying as hell and hard to work with. My jobs are clean and quick. I don’t fuck around and if you fuck me, then I’ll be more than happy to fuck you.” He leaned in closer, his words a serious whisper. “Does that ease your conscious?”

Norman did not like the threatening tone, but he appreciated the assurance than man promised. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “That’s the first half,” he said to the mercenary. “I’ll pay you the rest after you do the job.”

The albino took the envelope and checked it over. He smiled again, pleased, before he pocketed the money away. “Best you get back to that sweet penthouse of yours,” he said, sliding off his stool. He laid a crisp twenty on the bar. “This is a bad place with bad people with bad intentions.”

Norman spied around them, catching the eye of Weasel the bartender. The fatty watched their parting through his cheap, plastic spectacles with a peculiar curiosity. It only lasted a second before the bartender turned his attention to the next customer. There was something not right about that bartender. Something that didn’t sit well.

Norman got off his stool and hurried back to the doors, dodging the others and keeping his face covered by the collar of his trench coat. Once outside, he kept his head down and face out of sight from any nearby cameras as he made his way to a much nicer area to catch a cab.

* * *

Norman finished a chat with a few local college students. All of them were trying to suck up to him, impressing him with their genetic knowledge and other achievements that far annoyed Norman more than awed him. He favored them with some of his attention, but excused himself quickly to have a quick word with his engineer.

He wanted to ensure that the glider was ready to be presentable during his speech. Norman hardly ever attended TechStart, a conference for industries to come and showcase their up-and-coming products. Norman found them boring and mostly it was a chance for young people to network and hope to get an internship.

This year was different when the board members of the conference asked Norman to be the featured speaker at the conference. Normally, they extended it to someone from Stark Industries, but this year, they asked Norman first. It was a great honor to be recognized and, more importantly, to show up Stark.

He accepted and was now in the Javits Center, listening to his engineer’s concerns about the stability of the glider.

“I don’t care what you have to do to fix it,” Norman cut off his employee with a sharp bite. “Just fix it!”

The engineer nodded and busied himself to silence as he tinkered on the glider. Norman checked his watch. It was nearing noon. He should get something for lunch. He still had five hours to kill before his presentation.

Norman called for his car. He strutted across the floor, eyes wandering from exhibit to the next, disappointed by all the App-driven solutions. Nothing was innovative anymore. And the millennials think they are geniuses.

He reached the front of the building. The glass structure of the center shined brilliant in the sunlight, forcing Norman to throw on his sunglasses. He heard whispers of others as he moved to the doors, his security team tight around him. A few people attempted to approach him, but were turned away by his bodyguards.

Norman’s smirk widened. The attention and the seeking of his guidance heightened him. His shoulders back and neck proudly straight. He favored the onlookers with a few waves as he headed to his car, basking in the spotlight.

A sudden hush fell over the waiting crowd followed by a sudden intake of air. Bodies froze, almost struck. Not a single person Norman managed to glimpse at even blinked. Their irises stationary as they looked beyond.

Before Norman figured what caused the sudden change, someone yelled out over the silence.

“Norman!”

Norman halted. He knew that voice. His heckles rose along his neck as he swirled on his heels to meet Tony Stark.

And that triggered everyone to react. Everyone swarmed Stark, pushing Norman and company aside to make their way to the famous Iron Man. Shrieks and screams mingled overhead, interchanging to the point that Norman believed a migraine was growing behind his eyes.

Norman watched Stark favor a few fans with pictures, handshakes and greetings. The man’s swagger doubled as more people came to circle him, but his entourage kept him in a comfortable circle of protection. Norman didn’t recognize anyone. No Avengers or Pepper or even that lazy chauffeur that hardly drove him around the city. Just plain, old, business suited individuals.

Stark finished his adoration session. Dressed in fine clothes and sporting those hideous purple shades, he sauntered pass his admirers to Norman.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Stark said in a jabbing tone as clicks of phones went off around them. “Thought you did away with all those schmoozing events after that disastrous 2010 TechCrunch convention?”

A twinge of anger heated Norman’s blood at the remembrance of that embarrassing malfunction. His prototype of a similar military armor failed spectacularly in front of prestigious guests, which earned him mockery throughout his field.

But, Norman refused to take Stark’s bait. He kept his cool. “I was called to be a lecturer,” he boasted. “Featured speaker, to be exact.”

Stark nodded, but wasn’t at all impressed. “Is it your first time?” he questioned, mockingly. “Well, don’t be shy. I know public speaking isn’t your forte. Although you do have a knack for being loud.”

“Not as explosive as yours, I can assure you,” Norman fired back, but Stark only chuckled at his attempt to insult. “What are you doing here? Didn’t think you personally attend these unless alcohol is free.”

“Oh—I came to see what the newest, scientific-minded generation has to offer,” Stark revealed, ignoring the jab. “Help some of these youngsters develop and reach their potential in bettering the world. That sort of thing.” He looked around to the young faces that peered at them in awe and excitement. “After all, the children are the future. Might as well help them.”

Norman wanted to gag at the statement. “They should learn to help themselves,” he snipped. “I grew up with nothing and made myself into something. Kids this generation are lazy, weak and coddled too much. They should learn to thrive on their own without relying on our bank accounts.”

Stark stared for a moment like he wasn’t certain he heard correctly before accepting that his ears didn’t lie. “Sound like a true capitalist,” he remarked. “Don’t you have a kid of your own? What—Harry, isn’t?”

Harry—he was the perfect model of a self-absorbed, co-dependent, lazy youngster that Norman mentioned. Harry lacked any and all direction. His lack of curiosity and passion left him incompetent and, frankly, an embarrassment to Norman. Harry was nothing like his other son.

Nevertheless, Norman didn’t appreciate Stark’s observation. “I’ll raise my son as I see fit,” he snapped. “Besides, he needs tough love if he wants to survive in today’s business world.”

“Or a therapist,” Stark muttered. “Either way, you’re right. He’s your kid.” He shrugged in forfeit. “I have my own kids to worry about. Mentoring and all that can be quite a project itself.”

Norman knew who Stark was referring to: Peter. He was mentoring his creation to be more like  _him_! He mentally scowled at the image of Peter resembling Stark. Peter didn’t belong to Stark. He rightfully belonged to Norman. He was Norman’s creation. Norman should be mentoring Peter!

Stark adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, oblivious to Norman’s uproar. “I heard Oscorp is presenting a new form of weaponry for the military,” he remarked, changing the subject. “A glider to be exact.”

Norman’s face contorted for a split second. How the hell did Stark know about that? It was top secret.

Stark smiled like he had the ability to read his mind. “Relax, Norman. I’m not snooping in your servers, although I probably could,” he quipped. “Like you, I have friends in high places. They told me a thing or two.”

Rhodes. Colonel Rhodes must have told him of the design. “And let me guess,” Norman said, peeved. “You’re going to try to one up on me? Build your own version?”

Stark shook his head. “Nah. It’s a lame idea,” he lazily parried as if Norman’s jab had no effect on him. “I’m far more interested in what the younger generation has to offer. Not a low-rated version of my suit.”

A bitter taste stung Norman’s tongue as he held himself back. “Well, my glider certainly got the military’s attention,” he remarked, proudly. “They are coming for a demonstration.”

“I imagine they’ll be full of disappointment,” Stark wisecracked, “once they realize it’s nothing like my suits.”

Norman bristled at the insult. “Well, you forfeited your chance to earn the military’s favor,” he reminded Stark. “Someone needs to fill in the gap you selfishly abandoned for your own personal use rather than for the good of the country.”

Stark’s face morphed from that cocky grin to a more serious mien. “For the ‘good of the country’?” he repeated, either insulted or exasperated, Norman wasn’t certain. “And what is that exactly, Norman? Handing the military powerful weapons that would terrorize not only enemies, but their own citizens? Ross did a fine demonstration why the government needs less power over its civilians. And that includes weapons.” Stark had taken off his sunglasses, looking straight at Norman. “So, if you consider me withholding the designs of the Iron Man suit as being selfish, then… yes! I am incredibly selfish and proud of it.

“Besides, I’ve matured from playing Cowboys and Indians,” Stark added recomposing himself into some martyr figure that revolted Norman. “I focus on preservation rather than destruction. Don’t want to screw the next generation over.”

“Big talk for a man who built a murderbot a few years ago,” Norman jeered, remembering how Stark’s Ultron devastated an entire country and killed thousands. “Face it, Stark. You’re still the same arrogant, imposter as ever. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Stark didn’t smile at that. He looked far somber than Norman even hoped. “In some ways,” he admitted, “but not in the more important aspects. You wouldn’t understand.”

Norman’s smile slipped as Stark placed his sunglasses back on his face. “I would advise that you be careful, Norman,” Stark offered. “Some men have gone mad for power.”

“I’m not worried,” Norman answered, calm. Collective. “I’m Norman Osborn. I have a way of getting what I want.”

“And if you don’t?”

“You do what you have to do,” Norman’s grin widened as he thought of Peter being returned home. “Gotta take what’s yours, Stark.”

“And protect it with your life,” Stark finished, resolute.

The threat lingered between them as they stood-off against one another. Norman studied Stark’s face, measuring him up to determine if they were talking about the same thing. The unnerving glare and steadfast position subtly warned Norman that Stark may know more than just the glider.

If Thaddeus Ross confessed to Stark—

_Cracksss. Cracksss. Cracksss._

Curling screams ripped the air.

A body fell.


	22. Pepper Potts II

“Ready for your surprise?” Pepper smiled, carrying her daughter to their living room.

Maria’s round eyes stared aimlessly at her face. Not even noticing the stylish entertainment jumper in the center of the room. Her pink fingers touched Pepper’s cheeks, holding it there for a moment. Pepper smiled. She may look like Tony with the black curls and dark eyes, but in quiet moments like this, she reminded Pepper of herself.

Pepper carried her to the jumper. “Look? See what mama and dada bought you?” she pointed to the jumper.

Maria followed Pepper’s fingers, her eyes terrified, but then mystified by the unknown object. Maria gripped on her mother’s arm as Pepper lowered herself beside the jumper.

“You’re okay,” she promised as she unlatched Maria from her. “Mama’s got you. Don’t worry.”

Maria squirmed as Pepper slowly placed her in the jumper. She didn’t cry, but maybe that was because she too afraid to cry. Once Pepper got Maria seated, her daughter’s expression changed. Eyebrows quirked as her little hands fumbled over the rings and buttons that surrounded her.

And then, Maria smacked the red button. It lit up. A burst of music played. Maria jumped at the noise, but then she giggled and shrieked with joy, looking right up to Pepper with the biggest smile as she smashed the button again.

Pepper beamed as she watched Maria engage with her new toy, smacking all the buttons and playing with the rings, spinning them in circles. Pepper couldn’t wait to show Tony. He would be proud to see that his daughter already learned how to use all the little gadgets. “She’s a Stark after all!” Tony would remark, teasing as Pepper imagined she would glare at him for such a comment.

“Um… Pepper?”

Pepper looked over her shoulder. She didn’t even hear Happy walk into the apartment. “Happy! Hi there,” she said, waving him to enter. “Look at Maria go! She already figured out how everything works.”

When Pepper didn’t hear Happy respond, she turned back to him. She noticed that he wasn’t his normal relaxed state of exhaustion. There was no smile. No

Happy came to her. She didn’t even notice Happy’s gloomed face right away. She smiled up at him, showing Maria off to him. “Look at her go, Happy!” she exclaimed. “She’s already figured out how everything works.”

 When Happy didn’t say anything nor couldn’t offer a smile, Pepper’s happiness dimmed. Tony did something stupid. Again. “Happy?” she said, coming to her feet. “What happened?”

Happy’s face shined. He could barely even look at her, his head tilted downward. “It’s Tony,” he answered. His hands clenched and unclenched to stop them from shaking. “He’s… he’s, um…”

Pepper’s heartbeat picked up. Happy was never one to struggle to report Tony's mistakes to her. At least, not with this much difficulty like he swallowed a bee that repeatedly stung him in his throat. “Happy? What is it? Is Tony all right?” she looked behind him, half-expecting Tony to waltz in with another black eye or a limp. “Where is he?”

Happy’s lips trembled as the words jumbled out of him. “He’s been shot.”

Peter's heart fell straight to the floor. Happy kept talking, but Pepper’s head buzzed. Her feet moved. A walk at first, but then she started to run, forgetting shoes and everything.

She reached the doors, ready to run to find Tony, when she heard a high-pitch squeal behind her. Pepper halted. Her daughter. Maria.

Her daughter laughed as she slapped the buttons some more, unaware of the turbulence around her. So innocent to know that her father was injured. Maybe even dying.

Tears came to her eyes.

Happy was suddenly by her side. “Go! I can watch Maria.”

Pepper shook her head. “No… no, Happy… I can’t. I can’t leave her,” she knew she sounded foolish. But she couldn’t let Maria out of her sight. She didn’t want Maria to be abandoned.

Happy had his hands on her shoulders. “The plane is arriving soon,” he instructed. “Pepper—you need to go. I’ll protect Maria with my life. You know that. But you gotta go see Tony.”

Tony. Tony shot. Without his armor.

“Go!”

Pepper ran out the door, her feet carrying her through the compound. A helicopter flew overheard, coming onto the landing.

Tony!

Pepper sprinted into the hanger. Already, Steve Rogers was there along with Sam Wilson. The doors of the helicopter opened and people got out. Steve and Sam rushed over and helped them unload a stretcher from the helicopter. There was Dr. Cho, scurrying across the landing strip beside a stretcher. She was yelling out orders as another person sat on the stretcher, hands pressed over wounds with blood-soaked fingers.

Pepper recognized the dark hair, chiseled chin covered with facial hair and a ruined three-piece suit where blood splotched the front.

“Tony?” Pepper uttered, almost in denial of her sight.

The stretcher drew closer to them as Dr. Cho and her medical team hurried. Tony had a mask over his face, oxygen pumped into him. “Pressure is dropping!” cried a doctor on Tony’s left. “Need vasopressors!”

Steve ran alongside the stretcher. "Come on, Stark!" he urged through his gritted teeth. "Stay with us."

Pepper chased after Tony, calling him over and over again. “Tony! Tony! _Tony_!”

He didn’t respond to her frantic calls. He laid unconscious on the medical stretcher, blood soaking through his undershirt. Steve grabbed her and held her back as the doctors carted Tony away to prep him for surgery. She cried as Captain America closed his arms around her. Pepper buried her face in his chest, sobbing. She couldn’t lose Tony. Maria couldn’t lose her father.

Don’t die. Please don’t die on us, Pepper pleaded as she watched her love disappear amongst the throng of doctors and nurses.

Oh, god, please don’t die Tony.

* * *

Pepper sat across from Dr. Cho.

The good doctor explained all she and her team had done. Pepper tried her best to listen, but it was hard. All she could think about was Maria. And Tony.

Her favorite memory was of waking to Tony cradling Maria, baby-talking to her and saying over and over again how much he loved her. Emotional moments Tony rarely let anyone see. Only a select few like herself, Rhodey, Happy and even Peter.

Pepper bit her nails. She never bit her nails. Not since she was in high school. She didn’t stop though.

“Ms. Potts?” Dr. Cho said, drawing Pepper out of her stupor for a second. “I know this is all difficult to comprehend at once.”

She had no idea. Pepper brushed her long hair away from her face. “Can I see him?” It was all she wanted to do since he came in from the helicopter.

Dr. Cho nodded, getting up from her chair to escort Pepper. They walked down the hallway. Pepper was sure there was noise buzzing around her, but all she heard was the single, snare beats of her heart.

One beat. Two beats. Three beats.

Pepper passed a few doors. Her breathing got heavier like the air thickened. A pulse throbbed in her neck as she tried not to cry. She couldn’t cry. Do not cry!

Dr. Cho stopped at a door. It was quiet inside. “I’ll leave you here,” she said to Pepper. “If you need me, I’ll be down the hall in my office.”

Pepper couldn’t form a thank you, but she hoped Dr. Cho understood. She was a smart lady. She probably knew.

When the good doctor left, Pepper was alone. She inhaled. Her heart quivered, aching as she remembered the last time she saw Tony. Oxygen mask over his face, blood seeping through his white shirt, and silence. Too much silence from Tony.

Pepper reached for the door and entered. Like all the other medical rooms, it was devoid of beauty. Its walls were a cream color with no decoration to spruce the place. All that was available in the room was a cot, hospital machinery and a few comfortable chairs for guests to sit beside their loved one.

But Pepper didn’t take the chair. She went straight to the cot, standing over Tony’s still and silent form. So unnatural for him. Pepper observed the last traces of strains within his face, the last lines of feelings he received upon being struck with bullets. They were of shock and pain.

Pepper dropped her chin down. Eyes slammed shut as tears burst from the ducts. Her hands searched for Tony’s, finding them colder than normal.

“Tony,” Pepper sobbed, dropping over Tony’s chest, her ear pressed against his exposed skin to hear anything. “Tony...”

Her pleas were answered with low, mechanical beeps. Same rhythm pattern, but no promises. Pepper raised her gaze up from Tony’s chest to his face, waiting for any sign that he heard her. But her fiancé’s face remained blank.

Pepper sighed, tears dropping from her cheek and landing on Tony. “I love you.”

* * *

Later that night, Pepper returned to the apartment she shared with Tony. Happy was there, asking for any news on Tony’s condition. Pepper wasn’t in the mood to discuss it. All she wanted was her daughter.

Maria was sound asleep in her crib, wearing her little Iron Man pajamas that Tony bought as a joke. They fitted her well and it made Pepper hiccup at seeing her wear them now of all nights.

Pepper stroked Maria’s cheeks, her daughter not stirring at all. She had her legs and arms spread out, taking up the most space in her little crib. Like Tony when he flops on the bed, exhausted from a day with politicians and businessmen.

A teardrop fell on Maria’s forehead. Pepper wiped her eyes. She hadn’t meant to start crying. She didn’t want to cry in front of Maria. Didn’t want their daughter to be aware of her distraught. But, Maria didn’t wake. She didn’t even stir.

“Pepper?”

Pepper raised her head to Happy, who once again surprised her by his quiet entrances. “Yeah?”

“Your parents are in New York,” he told her. “I sent a car for them. Should be here in an hour.”

She didn’t remember calling her parents. Did she call her parents? Do they know? They must know if they are in New York.

“Okay,” Pepper murmured, not sure what to say to that. “I’m just going to sit here for a while. Stay close.”

Happy nodded, but she wasn’t sure he understood. He left like the way he came in, silently and secretively.

Pepper carefully carried Maria out of her crib, cradling her baby in her arms. Close to hear heart. She rocked, swaying as a song came to her lips. A lullaby she heard Tony sing to her a few times when he put her to bed.

_Young and strong, beautiful one_

_Embrace all you have ever loved_

_For one day it may be torn away_

_‘Til then_

_Lay to rest your head, sweet child_

_Lay to rest your head for a little while_

Maria shifted. Her mouth puckered up in response, but her eyes never peeked open. Pepper wondered if she thought it was her father singing to her. And Pepper wondered if Tony would ever sing again.

Pepper’s parents came in the hour Happy predicted. Pepper’s mother almost mirrored her own feelings—full anxiety, sorrow and sympathy. Her father’s face was blank. Expressionless. Almost like a state of shock.

Her mother rushed right to her. “Oh Virginia, dear,” she cooed, patting her long hair.

She said nothing else. All she did was stroke her hair while her father was deep in conversation with Happy, who once again appeared out of thin air.

“Virginia? Sweetie?”

Pepper lifted her gaze to her mother. Her mother smiled. It was small and kind. “How about we put little Maria back in the crib? Your arms must be tired.”

Her mother reached for Maria, but Pepper pulled away. She clutched Maria, bringing her child closer and away from her mother. “I’m not tired.”

“Virginia—”

“No!” Pepper backed away from her mother, keeping Maria out of reach. “Don’t! She needs me.”

Everyone stopped. Happy and her father turned to look at her. Her mother, helplessly standing alone as she watched her daughter back away from her. Pepper didn’t know what her parents were thinking, but she had an idea. Especially from the way her mother stared, a brutal sense of overwhelming compassion.

“Virginia—I know this is all stressful, but this isn’t healthy,” her mother said, softly. “You need rest. You need space. You need—”

“I need to be with my daughter!” Pepper shouted or cried. She wasn’t sure. “I need to make sure she’s okay. That she’s not… that she’s not… not alone.”

That last bit made her burst. She sobbed, hair falling to curtain her face. Her mind swam, drowning in dark thoughts. She stood over a grave, a tombstone revealing the dates of her fiancé’s life. Date of birth _dash_ date of death. She saw Maria, grown up, with long, dark hair and eyes that were a replica of Tony’s eyes. She wore a white dress, standing in the middle of the room, asking her mother, “Where’s my dad?”

Where was he? Somewhere Pepper couldn’t reach him.

Arms wrapped around her, a hand cradling the back of her head. “There, there, princess,” her father whispered. “I got you. Don’t worry.”

She didn’t even realize Maria was out of her arms. Her mother cooed over her granddaughter, calming the squalling infant. She must have woke up from Pepper’s hysteria. Fantastic mother I am, Pepper sarcastically thought.

Her father continued to embrace her until she calmed down. Her mother rocked Maria back to sleep, returning the baby to the crib for the rest of the night. They miraculously got her to sit down again, a blanket over her shoulder and a mug of warm water in her hand. No tea or coffee.

Her father sat beside her, arm comfortably embracing her over the shoulders. “Your mother and I want you to know we’ll stay as long as you want us,” he pledged. “Help you and Maria.”

Pepper wished she could give them some kind of gratitude, but she couldn’t. All her thoughts were tangled with Tony, laying on that medical stretcher, oxygen mask over his face and blood covering his torso. The image wouldn’t go away. No matter how hard she shut her eyes.

Her father brushed her hair behind her ears. “You need sleep,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

Only a day? More like centuries for her. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he countered in his gentle, but firm tone. “Happy’s worried about you. So are the others. You being cooped up in here, refusing to let Maria out of your sight—”

“Tony—”

“Would probably be wondering why you are acting like this,” her father finished. “It’s not the Pepper he knows. It’s not the Virginia I know, that’s for certain.”

Pepper sniffled, thinking of how she felt like a heartbroken teenager rather than an adult. “Dad, he’s…”

She can’t even say it.

Her father sighed, arm still wrapped around her shoulders. “If you cannot sleep, then I suggest you go back downstairs,” he advised. “Go and see him again. It’ll make you feel better.”

Would it? Pepper kept picturing the blood. All over the place.

“Seeing is believing, so I am told,” her father continued. “Don’t you worry about little Maria, here. Your mom and I can take care of her. Go on. Go!”

For some reason, her father’s words guided her off her feet and to the door. No one was outside their apartment. She took the elevator, requesting FRIDAY to direct her to the medical wing. FRIDAY honored the request and took her straight there without any stops. Pepper breathed, her nerves overacting as she stepped back into the familiar hallway.

She remembered the door Dr. Cho left her. It was the third door on the right. Pepper walked to the door, muttering to herself to not cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

She wasn’t doing a great job. She breathed, a bit too raggedy, but it helped control her overwhelming emotions that threatened to engulf her. She got to the door and turned the handle.

The room was the same as last. Tony was still hooked up to the machines, heart steady, but the body so still and grey. Like there was barely any life within him. Pepper saw it clearly with the table lamp on.

Pepper stopped. She didn’t turn on the lamp.

But Peter Parker did.

* * *

The kid scrunched himself into one of the visiting chairs that he pulled up next to Tony’s bed. His eyes were glued to Tony, watching and waiting. He didn't even acknowledge her entrance into the room. Too focused on Tony. On Tony's pale complexion and pained expression. 

“Peter?” Pepper whispered, surprised to find the kid in the room at all. She quietly closed the door behind her. “Peter? What are you doing here?”

Peter refused to look at her. “Couldn’t sleep,” he confessed. “Figured I could keep an eye on Tony. You know… make sure he’s doing okay and, um, just looking out for him. Like he does for me sometimes.”

And that statement made Pepper’s heart swell.

Peter shifted in his chair. “Do you want me to go?”

Pepper shook her head. To be honest, she could use another living being in the room. She moved across the room, taking another chair and pulled it up beside Peter. “Does May know you’re down here?”

Peter hesitated before he shrugged. “I didn’t tell her, but I think she knows anyway.”

She probably did. “You don’t have to be here,” Pepper said to him, offering him a chance to leave if he wished. “You can go back to your room, if you want.”

“That’s okay. I’m not tired.”

He looked like it. Half-hooded eyes that were rimmed in dried tears and hair in unruly curls, he looked no better off than Tony. The kid kept his body hunched, almost like he was in pain as well.

And then Peter said something that shot through Pepper’s heart.

“It’s all my fault.”

“What?” Pepper asked, doubting that she heard correctly.

Peter lifted his brown eyes to her. They shined bright in the light from his unshed tears. “It’s my fault. I know it is,” he repeated. “He got shot because of me.”

Pepper’s breath hitched in her throat, strikingly appalled. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true!” His voice cracked. Words raw and bleeding with pain. Heartache. 

“No, it’s not," Pepper reassured him. "It's not true at all."

Tony got shot because he wasn’t wearing his suit. That was the reason Tony was in a comatose state. Not because something Peter did. Peter didn't do anything.

Peter, however, refused to believe her words. “He got shot because he stood up to Ross. Because he stood up against the government. The military,” he rattled on, hands shaking as he twisted the ends of his sleeves. “All for me. And now… they shot him. They shot him and I wasn’t there to… to…" Peter's face creviced, broken lines running along his face. "They shot him, Ms. Potts and none of us were there to help him.”

Three times. All in the chest. And all Tony had were his drivers and a single bodyguard. Captain Rogers wasn't there. Rhodey didn't stand beside him. Dr. Banner wasn't looming, threatening to hurt any aggressor. Nat and Clint weren't there to spot the sniper and take him out with an arrow. No one. Tony was alone when he was shot. None of them standing at his side.

Pepper wiped her hands down her face. She thought of Tony, collapsing in pain and dying, surrounded by strangers. How painful it was for him to not be held by people who love him. Who he loved. 

She shivered at the thought. But, then she remembered who Tony was. The matured person he grew to become. The man who risked his life so many times to save her. And others. 

She wiped a tear away from her eye. “You’re wrong, Peter,” she said after a long, drawn sigh. “He didn't get shot because of you. He got shot because he stood up for what he believed in.”

Peter drew up a brow, but Pepper continued before Peter interjected. “Tony has a lot of faith in you, Peter. Believes you will be the greatest hero of all time,” she said with all the gust she could pull through her tired state. “Tony also believes in the Avengers. In his friends and loved ones. And he won’t ever stop doing what he thinks is best. Won’t stop until he knows they are safe. Trust me, I know. So do the others. And sometimes you want to strangle him for it and sometimes you are filled with love at the dedication he has. But… no matter what you say or do, he will always do what he thinks is best for you, even if you cannot see it that way.”

Pepper took a beat, breathing as much as she could. Steady breaths, she reminded herself. Steady. “Anyway, you’re wrong, Peter,” she mustered to say in a soft voice. Barely above a whisper. “You didn’t get him shot. Not in the slightest. Tony has many enemies. People who would threaten us just to get to him. And Tony... well, he would throw himself in front of a bullet for any one of us. Every single time. I know, because I saw him do it for me.

“So, please, Peter,” Pepper begged, tears dangerously teetering on her eyelashes, “don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t you. It was him. Tony being Tony. Never one to sit back and let things happen to other people. To people he cares.” Pepper stared at Tony lifeless form. Breathe, she reminded herself. Breathe. “Because Tony would rather he took the bullet than us. That’s the man he is. That’s the man I fell in love with and you admire.”

And that was the real truth behind the tragedy. Tony’s complex love for his family and friends led him to those steps and put him in the scope’s target. His dedication to keep all those he loves alive and well never ceased to amaze and scare Pepper. The extremities he took like building that army of Iron suits or creating Ultron frightened Pepper and she wanted him to stop. She told him countless times to stop his obsession to save them all. That she and everyone were safe and well.

She never once considered that maybe it was Tony that needed the protection. After all these years, working beside him as Iron Man, she never believed that Tony would be the one who needed the protection. The man with an iron shell around him and here he was, laying half-dead on the medical cot.

Tony was wrong. It was never her that was in danger of dying. It was him. Always him.

Next to her, Peter blinked. A tear fell. “I didn’t ask him to do that.”

And Pepper understood. She scooted her chair closer and wrapped an arm around him. “I know,” she breathed. “No one ever does.”

That was the thing though. When one loves deeply, nothing will stop them from doing what’s necessary to save the ones they love. Even if it meant their own deaths. Especially that.

Peter took Pepper’s embrace, dropping his head against her shoulder. Pepper patted his head, brushing down the curls. “He’ll come back,” she whispered promises to him or maybe to herself. “‘Stark men are made of iron.’”

Peter snorted through his tears and Pepper was grateful for the lightness of it.

A knock drew their attention to the door. It was Dr. Cho.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Potts,” Dr. Cho said, glancing at Peter, uncertain.

Pepper nodded her permission to speak in front of Peter. “He’s all right.”

Dr. Cho nodded acknowledgment to the granted permission. “I received word from our friends in Africa,” she reported, clutching her iPad as she lowered it down to look at Pepper. “They are sending a team over. The Princess believes she may have a way to save Mr. Stark.”


	23. Natasha Romanoff

“He’s in cryo-stasis,” Steve reported to the remaining Avengers in attendance. “Don’t know how long he will last in there. Princess Shuri is working with Dr. Cho on finding a way to use nanites to fix the damages.”

Natasha lifted her gaze from the cup in her hands to Steve. “Like she did with Clint?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, Clint’s injuries were less… severe as Tony’s, but something along those lines,” he said. “Princess Shuri put a few kimoyo beads in Tony to stabilize him before the stasis. It’ll report of any changes.”

The room went quiet, taking in the news that Tony Stark was out of commission. A few days ago, Stark was taking charge of the investigation. The information they found ranged from disturbing to insanity. And, it made everything crystal clear as to Ross’s obsession with Peter Parker. The puzzle was coming together and they busied to find the missing pieces to finish it.

That was until Tony Stark got shot.

Natasha remembered getting the call. At first, she rolled her eyes. She expected Stark to get himself caught up in a firefight. The man could never stay out of trouble. When she arrived at the Compound, expected to see Tony Stark up and about, ranting over the lame attempt on his life.

She never expected him to be heavily sedated with multiple tubes embedded into his arms. Tony laid perfectly still on the stretcher, face a ghostly pale color that almost resembled death itself. His clothes were already cut off him, the blood garments tossed into a hazard bag.

What bothered her the most was that Stark was quiet. Not a word. Nothing.

And now, the rest of the team huddled in the conference room. None of them spoke very much. Too shocked that Tony Stark was nearly taken out by bullets. Not some alien invasion or enhanced individual, but by mere bullets. From a normal human.

The world was fucked up.

“How is Ms. Potts?” Vision asked from his seat.

Steve dropped his hands from his waist to the table. “She’s um… doing her best,” he answered. “Her parents came up to help. I know Happy is keeping a close eye on her, but… she’s upset. She’s worried and she just wants time with her family.”

Vision nodded and Wanda dropped her chin, probably remembering the time she lost her family. Or more specifically, her brother, Pietro. Vision must have sensed her distress as he placed a hand on her shoulder, whispering comforts to help ease her pain.

Natasha inhaled, flickering her eyes to Steve. “Any leads?” she asked.

Steve frowned, disappointed. “None at the moment,” he confessed. “All we have is the sight and bullets taken from Tony’s chest. Nothing else.”

“Do we have men at the scene?”

“We do,” Colonel Rhodes answered. He wasn’t sitting down. His face taut, lips firm and curved downward. His eyes showed a dark rage. He had flown immediately from California to New York the minute he heard of Tony’s assassination attempt. He landed and went directly to Tony’s room before making a brief detour to Pepper. From there, he joined them. “I arrange our men to conduct the investigation. Sweep the area. They are reporting to Agent Ross. He’s leading the scene.”

Agent Ross—no relation to Thaddeus Ross—but a person Natasha hasn’t yet truly trusted. She was aware Stark showed some compromise with the man as did Captain America. Even Peter Parker trusted the man whole-heartedly, but Natasha wasn’t one to trust easy. A habit she kept since her days as an assassin for the KGB.

“What did he find?” Natasha asked.

“The assassin was a trained sniper,” Colonel Rhodes responded. “Shot Tony from nearly three thousand yards away. Not any person can do that.”

“Trained,” Natasha agreed. “Military.”

“HYDRA?” Sam asked. “Are they back?”

“I doubt it,” Natasha replied. “This has to do with our investigation into Ross.”

“And Osborn,” Steve added, rubbing his jawline. “Tony was certain that Osborn was associated with Ross.”

“There’s no proof,” Colonel Rhodes claimed. “Nothing in the documents you obtained from Ross pointed to Osborn.”

Natasha thought for a moment, remembering something Clint said when he came back. “Maybe not in the documents.”

All eyes turned to her. “What?” Sam asked.

Natasha swung her chair back to Steve. “Do you remember what Clint said? When he came back with the documents?”

Steve nodded, remembering. “Ross told Deadpool something,” he recalled. “Something under torture.”

“Perhaps we should make another call with this Deadpool fellow?” suggested Wanda.

There was a shift in the atmosphere. Charged and thick, as everyone in the room tensed upon remembering the last time they encountered Deadpool. Steve witnessed the man yank out his arms. The others saw Peter laying on a hospital bed, pulverized to a pulp.

Confronting Deadpool meant courting disaster, blood and a major headache. Natasha heard stories from Clint’s experience and he barely managed to rein in Deadpool. Apparently, Deadpool grew attached to Clint in a far more appropriate manner than a partner would have. Clint told her he still receives “care packages” from Deadpool at the former SHIELD hub in his neighboring territory.

Steve was the first to recover. He shook his head. “Out of the question,” he said. “He’s insane. No one goes near him. Unless you’re Clint.”

“Maybe we should call him in, then?” Sam proposed.

“He’s with his family now,” Natasha reminded them. “He’s not involved unless Peter is absolutely involved. And he’s not involved.”

“Of course he’s involved!” Sam argued, throwing his hands up in the air. “This whole situation revolves around Spidey-boy! How is he not involved?”

“He’s not involved in the investigation,” Steve said to everyone in the group. “Remember? May Parker doesn’t want Peter to be caught up in all of this. Tony too. He was adamant about keeping Peter away from all this.”

And that had yet to work out well. Peter’s kidnapping attempt, defamation and media attraction, Peter found his webs too tangled within the case. They did their best to keep him out of harm’s way, secluding him to the Compound in the past month. But, like Steve, Natasha believed Peter was aware of his new glided cage.

Vision raised his hand. Ever the polite one of the group. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he began. “Should not Peter be involved? This is his crusade, is it not?”

“A child should not lead a crusade,” Steve said. “Even if it involves him or her.”

Natasha thought of her days as a child, being raised in an environment that promoted violence. She knew how where to hurt a man. Knew where to make him scream. Knew where to make him weep. Knew where to make him beg for his mother. She knew every poison. Every gun. Every blade. She was an expert in ten martial art forms before the age of fifteen. A trained killer.

She sighed. Steve was right. It was no place for a boy like Peter. He’s innocent. No need to get blood on his hands.

“Where is the kid?” Natasha asked. “How’s he holding up?”

“Last time I checked, he almost looked as white as Tony,” Colonel Rhodes responded to Nat’s inquiry. “May said he’s barely spoken a word. Keeps by Tony’s bedside. I’ve seen this behavior before. It’s a state of shock. Even Pepper is concerned for him.”

“Is he with Tony now?”

Colonel Rhodes shrugged. “I don’t know. He wasn’t with the princess or Dr. Cho when they put Tony in cryo-stasis.”

“With his aunt then?” Wanda guessed. “I’m sure she’s probably with him.”

They accepted that answer and continued on. Natasha tuned them out, thinking. Her fingers tapped against the table with a gentle touch. She looked to the clock, remembering the arrival time of Princess Shuri and Tony’s cryo-stasis. She recalled Peter talking to his friend. A seriousness mien that shrouded any lightness that the boy once carried as he talked with the princess. A finality in the way he excused himself when Shuri had to assist Dr. Cho.

Natasha abruptly got out of her seat. Everyone stopped and turned to her. Then Steve spoke. “Nat?”

“I’ll be right back,” Natasha opened the door to leave. “Need to check up on something.”

* * *

To no surprise at all, Natasha watched Peter tip-toe into the garage. She stayed in her position as Peter pushed out his motorcycle onto the driveway. The kid scanned the area, missing her entirely before he decided it was clear.  

Natasha saw the suit underneath the dark hoodie he hoped to camouflage him with the nightscape. She smiled at his effort to sneak out. Too bad she was around the Compound or else Peter would have managed to escape from the Compound.

When Peter neared the end of the driveway, Natasha stepped out of her hide-out and revealed her presence. “Going somewhere?”

Her voice spooked Peter to spin around. He gripped the handlebars to stop him from falling over. “What? How… where did you come from?” Peter questioned, eyes dashing around her in search for any others.

Natasha jabbed her thumb behind her, toward the buildings. “From there,” she said, walking over to him. “So… you going on a road trip? I thought Cap said that the bike needed some more test-driving?”

Peter abashedly looked down for a moment. “Yeah, well, it works fine,” he claimed. “He’s just thinks it needs more work.”

Of course, she thought. Steve would say that just to buy him more time before confessing the truth of why Peter couldn’t drive off on his own.

“Where you going?” Natasha asked, crossed her arms as she relaxed her stance. But not enough to not be caught off-guard. She was never off-guard.

“Out.”

“I can see that.”

Peter said nothing. He only stared back with narrowed, dubious gaze.

Natasha let out a weary sigh. “It won’t help him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rebuffed her attempts to get his confession.

“Yeah, you do,” Natasha countered. “You were planning to run off and find the assassin on your own.”

Peter doesn’t say a word, but his avoidance of her gaze confirmed her suspicions.

“Let me ask you something, Peter,” Natasha said, approaching so that she stood right in front of him. “What were you going to do when you found them?”

“Get justice,” Peter answered automatically.

“How?”

Peter was baffled. “What do you mean how?” he questioned. He was stalling. He didn't have a plan. Didn't know what he would do. Only knew he had to do something and that was dangerous.

"Peter—how were you planning to get justice?” Natasha waited, patient.

Peter fidgeted. “I-I would get them to confess.”

Natasha lifted a brow. “How?”

Peter’s face tinged a bit maroon. “What do you mean how? I just told you!”

“You told me of your plans to get them to confess,” Natasha said, moving closer so that Peter rounded to the other side of the motorcycle, keeping the bike between them as a barrier. “I want to know _how_ you are going to get them to confess.”

There was a beat of silence. Both already aware that the other one knew. Peter curled in his lips into a taut determination. His eyes were darker in the night, a promised vengeance. He scrunched up his face, shifting his feet as if he ready to hop on the bike.

Natasha put her hand down on the seat. “You better think this through, kid,” she warned. “Is this really what you want to do?”

Peter glared. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re about to.”

Peter let out a stream of hot air. “I’m doing what you guys should be doing.”

“And that’s what exactly?” Natasha questioned.

“I’m going to avenge Tony!”

That’s what Natasha thought he would say. Her shoulders drooped a bit, disappointed. She hoped he would surprise her, but in the end, he was just like Stark. Like mentor, like mentee.

“You think avenging Tony is going out as Spider-man and beat the crap out of people?”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed, a deep crevice right between his eyes. “Not people,” he huffed. “Those responsible.”

“Oh? So you already know who shot Stark.”

Peter hesitated. “Well, no, but… I’m going to,” he said, confident in his declaration. “I’m going to find the person responsible.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” Natasha reminded him. It was hers. And Steve’s. And everyone else back in the conference room. It was not Peter’s.

But Peter didn’t see it that way. “You’re wrong,” he stated. “Pepper told me it wasn’t my fault that Mr. Stark got shot, but I know that’s not entirely true.” Peter shook his head. “You guys have been looking into something. Something that has to do with me.”

Natasha pulled back up, arms crossed as she studied Peter. Steve was right. The kid was intuitive. “Whatever it is, it’s Avengers business.”

“I’m an Avenger!”

“No, you’re not,” Natasha stressed with deep emphasis. “Definitely not. And you’re not supposed to even be spider-man.” She pointed to the exposed suit near his neck. “Now, I kept your secret and didn’t tell Tony that you had your suit. But if you go out now, I will stop you and take it.”

Peter frowned deeper. His foot slipped back, ready to sprint or fight. “I’m sorry, Nat,” he said, but he didn’t sound apologetic at all, “but I’m not a kid anymore.” He took both handlebars, ready to leave again. “If you try to stop me, I’ll fight.”

Peter turned his back on her, pushing the motorcycle off the driveway. Natasha crinkled her brow, shocked and disturbed by the sudden change in Peter. What happened to that innocent, sweet kid back on the farm? Willingly to listen and help those around him. Bright-eyed and excitable, happy to simply be in the same room as others. He suddenly became a punk.

“So, that’s it, huh?” Natasha inquired to Peter’s back. “You’re going to run off and use the skills Clint taught you to kill a man?”

“I’m not going to kill—”

“Torture then, which is much worse in my book,” Natasha cut him off. “That’s what Clint trained you for, is it?”

Peter stopped and craned his neck over his shoulder. “Clint taught me to fight!”

“He taught you to _protect_ ,” Natasha sharply countered. “If he knew what you were going to do, he would have knocked you out and dragged your ass to the mini-prison we have here.”

Peter bristled. “Clint’s not here!”

“Then think about Tony,” Natasha tried to guilt Peter into submission. Make him remember his mentor and idol. “How would he feel if knew he was the reason you got your hands covered in blood?”

“Considering he’s in carbonite,” Peter threw back, “I doubt he can feel much. Besides, this is something he would do. He wouldn’t sit and do nothing. He would be out there! Finding the person responsible!”

“The _old_ Tony would do that,” Natasha rebuked him. “Not anymore. He’s learn from his mistakes and what does he tell you, Pete? Remember what he says? ‘ _I want you to be better_ ’. How is this being better?”

Peter mimicked her expression of desperate and righteous frustration. “Why do you guys keep saying that to me? Why do I have to be the better one?” he whined, face soured. “Why is everyone stuck on this idea of putting me on a high pedestal?”

“Because you _are_ the better hero out of all of us,” Natasha quickly answered. “You’re kind. Compassionate. Intelligent. Brave. Overall, you have a good heart. That’s why we look up to you, Peter. You have seen the worst of mankind, experienced pain and sorrow, and yet… you always come out on the right side. You still have your heart. You’re not burned by it. Not darkened. You’re still _you_.”

Peter blinked and Natasha wondered if her words got through to him. She took in a breath. “I meant what I said back on Clint’s farm, kid,” she said. “You’re the better halves of Tony and Steve. And that’s something impressive.”

The kid didn’t think of it impressive. “Who cares? It doesn’t stop me from losing the people I care about,” he responded, vindictive. “Well—no more. I’m tired of watching people I love die.”

Peter marched onward, not even waiting for a rebuttal from Natasha. Already, his mind was made up and nothing would change it.

Natasha had one more shot. One last chance to stop Peter from doing the unspeakable. She hated to use it against him, but it was her last hope. Either it would stop Peter or make things much worst. She hoped for the former.

As Peter drew further and further away, Natasha rolled her last dice. “Is this what your Uncle Ben envisioned for you?”

Peter came to a screeching halt. His heels dug into the asphalt. Fingers twisted the handlebars.

She got his attention. The next steps needed to be handle gently. “With great power, comes great responsibility,” she continued on, watching Peter’s shoulders tensed as she recited Uncle Ben’s words to him. “Isn’t that right?”

Peter didn’t move. Natasha slid across the pavement, her feet barely made a sound as she approached the kid once more.

“Peter?” Natasha quietly called for him again. “Is this what your uncle had in mind?”

“Stop.”

His voice went quiet. It almost sounded child-like. A bit broken.

Natasha briefly closed her eyes, regretting pushing against Peter’s bleeding heart like this. “Answer the question, Pete,” she repeated. “Is this what Uncle Ben wanted you to become?”

“Please, Nat—don’t.”

Natasha made her way to Peter. The kid’s head was down, but she saw the shine in his eyes. “Just answer the question, kid,” she said. “Is this what your Uncle Ben wanted?”

Peter didn’t raise his head. Each breath he expelled was full of grief. Shallow and harsh. Too ragged for a boy. His hands were shaking on the handlebars, fingers curling to control it. There was limited success.

Guilt burned into Natasha’s guts, but she pressed onward. It was the only way. “Go ahead,” she nudged her chin in the direction of the Compound’s gate. “If you truly believe you are doing the right thing, then go. I won’t stop you.” Natasha started to back away from him. “Just remember what you will be losing when you do.”

And then, the kid’s head rose. Brown eyes wide and glossy. Pain written all over his face. A sole tear dropped from his lashes, trailing down his cheek to his trembled, pinched mouth.

Natasha pitied the kid, but she wasn’t going to wait for an answer. She turned on her heel and walked back to the buildings. Not once did she turn her back to see what decision Peter made. She crossed the lawn and hiked up the steps, returning to indoors as she got back into the elevator to take her to the conference room.

The elevator pinged and the door opened for her. Natasha stepped out, but paused by a window. She peeked out, looking over the vast landscape of the Avengers Compound. She scrunched her eyes a bit, focusing on a figure moving across the lawn.

Natasha smiled. “This is why you’re better than all of us,” she whispered as she watched Peter Parker return to the residential buildings, hands stuffed in his oversized pocket. The door closed behind him.

Natasha kept the smile on her face, proud of the baby spider as she returned to the conference room. Not a lot changed. Everyone was still there, discussing and arguing what to do next. When she opened the door, they all fell silent again, looking to her with perplexed wonder.

“Where did you go for so long?” Sam questioned.

Natasha sat back in her original chair, not looking anyone specifically in the eye. The smile still on her face. “Oh… you know,” she said. “Just checking up on something.”

That got everyone to raise a critical look, but before they could further interrogate her on the matter, there was a knock on the door.

Happy Hogan stood outside, wearing medical gloves and carrying a briefcase.

Steve gestured for him to enter. “What’s up, Happy?” he asked, riddled with concern. “Is Tony—did something happen?”

Happy shook his head. “Everything is still the same,” he reported, “but I didn’t come down here for that.”

He hurried to the table and set the briefcase on top. He unlocked it. Natasha leaned in her chair to see what was inside, but Happy already pulled the content out and dropped it on the table.

Nat’s eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “What is that?”

It was a booklet that looked like a kid drew all over the cover. The whole designed was on basic, white paper and the drawings were done in crayons.

Colonel Rhodes glanced over it. “Are we looking at one of Maria’s drawings?”

Happy shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, this came in the mail. For Peter.”

Steve arched his brows. “And what’s does some… artwork for Peter have to do with the situation at hand?” he questioned.

“Well, it just so happens that this artwork… is covered in blood.”

Everyone suddenly pushed their chairs back from the table, hands up to avoid any contamination. “What the hell!” Sam shouted, looking at Happy like he was a deranged lunatic. “Why you bringing this shit here?”

“Because this shit,” Happy pointed to the booklet, “is evidence on what happened to Tony.”

“What?” All of them still confused by his announcement.

Happy let out a frustrated sigh. “I mean what I said,” he grunted. “Security labeled it as bio-hazard and I went to investigate.” He turned to look at Captain America. “You’re going to want to read it. Mind you, with gloves on like mine. But… it’s important.”

Steve glanced from the booklet to Happy. “What is it exactly?”

“It’s a comic book,” Happy answered, “of what happened the day of Tony’s assassination.”

* * *

They all wore the gloves and a few wore face masks as they flipped through the comic book. Drawings after drawings of a red-masked character with large black eyes appeared on every page, narrating the story. The setting was in New York. That much was obvious by the author’s crude drawing of the Manhattan skyline.

Along with the red-masked character, there were others. A white, bald-looking figure with red eyes, robust in figure and very imposing against the other characters. There was a little green fellow and a curly-hair Sue, who wore plaid and held what appeared to be beer bottles in each hand. But the main character seemed to be the big, white dude, who traveled from one place to another, engaging with each character about a job or what-not.

The last few pages was what held everyone’s attention. It was obvious what the first scene of the final act was supposed to be. The character dressed in black wearing colorful glasses was meant to be Tony, with red dots coming out from behind him to depict his assassination. The White Bald man stood on a rooftop, gun in hand and smoking. The red-masked character pointed the White Bald man as the culprit.

Steve released a heavy sigh. “So that’s what happened.”

“ _May_ have happened,” Colonel Rhodes quickly corrected. “Can’t call this sufficient evidence. Won’t be allowed in a courtroom.”

“He is right,” Vision said from above. “It’s not hard proof, Captain. They can argue that it’s a prank or say it is an unreliable source.”

They flipped onto the next page where it showed the White Bald man escaping and Tony dying out on the sidewalk. Steve turned the page again and they saw a colorful masterpiece of the White Bald man standing in an apartment, red-masked figure outside the window, waving.

“I think I’m getting the picture,” Steve muttered.

“How so?” Wanda asked, befuddled as much as the next person. “Who is this red-masked person?”

“You don’t want to know,” he answered and he turned the page, although it was sticking a bit to another.

Steve peeled the pages apart and laid the comic back down. At once, everyone pulled their hands back. The entire page was coated in blood.

Natasha saw a few crayon drawings behind the blood, but it was hard to know what it was before blood smeared over it.

“What the hell…” Sam’s voice trailed, wide-eyed at the paper. “What does this mean?”

Steve dropped his arms. “It means that Tony’s assassin is dead.”

Everyone looked back to him. “What? How do you even figure, Cap?” Colonel Rhodes asked. “Because of a homemade comic book says so?”

Steve walked away from the table, dropping back in his chair. His eyes moved up to Happy. “You know who did this.”

Happy nodded. “I figured it out.”

Natasha glanced between the two men and then looked back at the comic, remembering all the characters. Then it came to her. The red-masked character with the big, black eyes. “Deadpool,” she muttered before turning to Steve. “This is from Deadpool.”

Steve confirmed with a nod. “He must have figured out who the assassin was.”

“And killed him,” Colonel Rhodes finished, taking another look at the blood. “Is someone analyzing the blood?”

“Already on it,” Happy answered. “Should know sooner or later whose blood that belongs to.”

“Probably the White Bald man,” Natasha remarked. “Deadpool must have found out and killed him in retaliation.”

“Or as a gift?” Steve proposed, looking a lot more tired than he did a few minutes ago. “He did draw this entire comic book for Peter. Probably wanted him to know that he retaliated on his behalf?”

Natasha thought of how Peter nearly ran away to do that himself.

Colonel Rhodes smacked the table. “Well, that doesn’t help us figure out why the guy shot Tony,” he argued, bitter in his resentment to not interrogate the assassin. “All we know is that he’s a tall, white dude with red eyes. And probably dead.”

“Most definitely dead,” Steve affirmed.

Sam kept flipping through the comic book, eyebrows pinched close together. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, holding up a hand. “Maybe we’re missing the point of this?”

They looked to Sam. “What do you mean?” Wanda asked, peering at him with muddled confusion by his statement.

“I mean, sure, Deadpool probably wanted to let Peter know that he killed the man that tried to kill Tony, but you see here,” Sam opened up to the page where the White Bald man sat beside the green figure, with the curly hair Sue nearby. “I think this page is important. Why did Deadpool have to show us this page? Why not just do the entire comic on Tony being shot and then Deadpool killing the guy?”

Steve got up from his seat and went to stand next to Sam, poring over the comic. “Are you saying—”

Natasha picked up what Sam was saying. “You think the assassin was hired to kill Tony,” she said, looking squarely at Sam before she pointed on the green character, “by this man.”

Sam pointed right at Natasha. “Yep. I don’t think the big, baldy here is our Big Bad,” he told everyone. “I think it’s whoever this green dude is. I think he’s the one who arranged the hit on Tony.”

That made a lot of sense. Story-wise at least. Natasha looked over the drawing. The White Bald man sat beside the green figure, speaking of a job he had to do. It would make sense. Complete sense.

Sam lifted the comic up a bit and pointed to curly hair Sue. “And I think we both know who we need to go talk to,” he said to Steve.

Natasha raised her eyes to Captain America. “You guys do?”

Steve took in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he answered, looking back at everyone. “His name is Weasel. He’s a friend of Deadpool. And he might have our missing link to all of this.”


	24. Weasel

Winter was certainly storming through New York. Not snow necessarily, but the bitter chill that made every man's bones creak when moved. Everyone was bundled as temperatures dropped, everyone become a black puffball of parkas and hats. 

Except Weasel, who decked out in what most considered an autumn jacket with a red hat, an ugly scarf and worn sneakers. He didn't care for the odd, befuddled looks he received from strangers as he walked passed on his way to work. He hardly gave a damn what they thought. 

He arrived to work, entering through the employee's door. The bar was dark and dank and smelled of stale whiskey. That's not surprising considering there was a brawl near closing. A lot of drinks went flying. Glass shards scattered everywhere. 

It was unfortunate that he had double-shift. Patch called in sick. The flu or cold. Some kind of bullshit. 

Weasel threw off his coat and hat and scarf into the cupboard, and started to take inventory. Needed to know how much he got left of everything before opening the bar. He should have done it last night, but the big fight made him want to go straight home. 

As he checked each bottle, he heard the door open. There were no other employees. Just him. And he didn't unlock the front door. 

Weasel set his notebook down as he heard the heavy set of footsteps close in on him. He swallowed, unnerved, but he should have expected this intrusion. 

"Most people knock," he said, over shoulder. He turned and pressed his back against the countertops as he faced off against four individuals. 

He recognized two from before. Tall, blonde hair with an American, apple-pie face stood with his plain attire of jeans, grey shirt and a brown leather coat. Next to him was the familiar African-American. Just as tall, but lankier than blondie. He had his arms crossed, eyes judging Weasel. Beside him was a shorter, younger woman with scarlet red hair and round eyes that bore a type of lost innocence, pain and anger. They roved over his face, almost seeing something within him that made Weasel shudder in nervousness. Up in front though, leading the charge was a short man, graying hair and wore a hefty black coat. His hands dug into his pockets, rummaging before he pulled out a badge.

"We're not most people," the short guy replied as he showed his badge for Weasel to read. Special Agent Everett Ross. 

Typical. 

Weasel leaned back, chin up as his eyes darted from one face to the next. Captain America. Falcon. Scarlet Witch and the little CIA agent. "And what does a group of super-charged heroes need from a guy like me?"

"Cooperation would be a good start," Agent Ross answered, pulling out a stool to sit down. He drew up a plastic, zip-lock bag and laid it on the bar. "Does this look familiar to you?"

Weasel shifted his gaze down. It was an evidence bag and inside the bag appeared to be like a hand-drawn comic book. Oh, fucking Jesus Christ... He recognized those caricature drawings.

"Yeah, looks familiar,” he admitted, “but I've never seen it."

The agent's eyebrows bunched together in perplexity. "What?"

He was going to have to spell it out to them. "The drawings are familiar, but the book itself is not. Do you understand—”

"No need to be antagonistic," piped the Falcon. "It's a question. Just answer it."

Jesus Christ! Every single time, he found himself roped up into Wade’s adventures. Even when he specifically told Wade to keep him out. Like, every single time Wade showed up at his doorstep, he told Wade, “I don’t want to get involved.” And every time, the bad guys chasing after Wade come to him, searching for answers.

Weasel sighed, loudly. "Look--I know you know who drew this," he pointed at the comic. "You're just looking for confirmation and yes... Deadpool drew it."

Agent Ross coiled, surprised by Weasel's immediate confession. "Oh... so, you can confirm that these drawings are from Deadpool?"

"No, but I can say they look like they were done by Deadpool."

The agent looked exhausted. Bags under his eyes, forehead embedded with deep trenches that stretched across, and a shadow around his mouth expressed his need to refuse any shit given to him. He scowled at Weasel. "Give me a straight answer," the agent demanded, pounding a hand on the evidence. "Did Deadpool draw this or not?"

All Weasel could do was shrug. "Possibly. That's the best I can give you," he responded. "Deadpool doesn't actually update me with his plans. Although..." Something was tickling in the back of his mind, "…he did say something about a special gift to a baby in your custody."

The great American hero frowned. "Peter isn't jailed," he protested. "Nor a baby."

Weasel shrugged again. He didn't care about the kid. Not as much as Wade did at least. "Yeah, sure, of course not," he grumbled and he turned back to go over inventory. "Look—get to the real point you're here, okay? I got a business to run in a couple of hours and I can't keep hosting this Q&A session."

He heard a soft grumble of annoyance, but it lasted only for a few seconds. "What can you tell us about this comic?" questioned the agent.

Weasel sighed, shoulders falling back as he turned to face them once more. "Nothing," he said, aghast. "You'll have to ask Deadpool the meaning behind it all. Anyway, I'm pretty sure he explained it well enough with his drawings."

"Are we to believe that Deadpool killed the man who shot Tony?" Agent Ross inquired. "Just because he drew it?"

"Sure," Weasel answered. There was no doubt that Deadpool killed the assassin. "If he drew it, it happened."

"What about the blood?" Captain America overtook the line of questioning. "It's all over a single page. Do you happen to know whose blood that is?"

Weasel paused, arching a ridiculous brow high up on his forehead. He shouldn’t be surprised that Wade went a bit drastic with his drawings. "What happened in the story?" he asked, his curiosity begging to be satisfied. He had an idea whom the blood belonged to, but needed the confirmation.

Agent Ross reached back down his stool, pulling out a stack of sheets. One by one, he revealed each paper to him. They were copies of the comic book's pages, all blown up to see all the colorful drawings Wade took the time to design in order to retell his glorious ride. Weasel gave a few seconds glances to each copy. Yep. Weasel got a perfect picture of what Deadpool did after their little talk last week.

Weasel spied one particularly page. He snatched it up, studying the characters before he grumbled. "Jesus Christ," he huffed. "Why does he draw me like a fucking girl? It's not that hard to draw curls on a man. Fucking asshole. He did that on purpose."

"So you admit that's you then?" the Falcon said.

"Do you see another curly-hair bastard running this bar?" Weasel remarked, flippant, as he flicked through the rest of the photographs that each displayed a single picture of the comic book. "All right, so what's the thing about blood?"

The red-haired girl waved her fingers. Two pages moved away from Weasel, red mist cradling the pages in front of Weasel’s face. Weasel would have shit in his pants at the sight of Scarlet Witch’s powers, but being around Deadpool had made his bladder stronger than ever.

"The white man," Scarlet Witch said with a funny accent as she moved the photographs in front of him, "he stood in an apartment. Next page," She switched to the next drawing that was drenched in red, "it’s all blood.”

Weasel examined the grotesque page. “So, the guy went ka-boom, huh?" he observed the two drawings. "Deadpool doesn't normally do bombs, but sometimes, he does it for the thrill and to ensure no mistakes are made.”

The Avengers shared a look with one another. Agent Ross leaned over the bar. "Are you saying that... that Deadpool blew up the guy?"

Weasel grabbed the floating copies. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying," he said, passing the copies back to the agent. "You must be the smart one in the group."

Agent Ross glowered, not appreciative of his sarcasm. The agent slid one of the copies of the comic back into view. Weasel saw that dumb, caricature drawing of himself. "Since you claim this is you," he said, pointing to the curly-hair mascot in the drawing, "do you know who these two are?"

He pointed to a drawing of a white figure with red eyes and a green figure with a big-ass trench coat. Weasel stared for a minute before he raised his eyes from the paper to the faces. "You fucking kidding me?" he said. "Have I seen a white dude or a green dude? What is this? Fucking Teletubbies?"

"Well, you do run a shady bar," Agent Ross pointed up to the Deadpool list above them. "I could arrest you and condemn this place on that alone. So... humor us? Have you seen these men?"

Weasel sighed and snatched the picture from the agent's hand. He peered at it a bit closer, staring into those red eyes. He knows of only one man who shared similar characteristics of the white figure. Only one.

"Yeah...I know him," he dropped the picture back on the bar. He jabbed a finger hard on the white face. "That's Tombstone. He's a hired hit-man. One of the best."

Agent Ross scribbled notes. "Tombstone?" he rolled the name around in thought. "Do you happen to know his real name? Or will we do another round of ‘guess who’?"

"Lonnie Lincoln," Weasel promptly answered. "Doesn't come here often, but he shows up once in a while."

Captain America pushed the picture back to Weasel, his finger above the green character. "And this person? Who's the green man?"

Weasel remembered exactly who that man was. "He's the Grade A douche," he remarked. "Fuckin' reminded me of your friend Stark."

"Can we have a name?" Captain America pressed, face hardening in urgency. "Who is the green man?"

"The Grade A douche would be the one and only Norman Osborn."

The Avengers team froze, petrified by his answer. Almost as if time stilled around them. Agent Ross scrambled his phone out, tapping away before he turned the screen to Weasel. "This guy?" he said, serious. "Is this who you saw? The green guy?"

Weasel raised his glasses up his forehead as he got a closer look. "Yep," he popped the 'p' as he slid his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. "That's the same douche who was here a week ago."

His acknowledgment stiffened the Avengers’ faces. A looming dread that shadowed half of their faces as they accepted his visual confirmation. They were temporarily incapacitated, dealing with the new reality in their scrambled minds. All except Captain America, who dropped his hands on the bar and stared directly into Weasel’s eyes with the full intensity of a man on a mission. No more jokes. No more patience. It was life and death. A game Weasel hated to play.

Captain America shot off his round of questioning. "Did he hire Tombstone?" he grilled. "Did you overhear them talking about assassinating anyone? Was there any—"

Weasel held up his hand to stop the interrogation. "Slow down, Apple Pie. Not all of us are super-powered," he grumbled, taking a breather. "Right—this Osborn douche was Tombstone's client. They made a deal and went their separate ways."

"What deal?"

"Something about a once in a lifetime opportunity or something another," Weasel mumbled, not remembering the details that well. He was too far away to hear word-for-word of the conversation.

The Avengers' faces all fell. They became chalk white, staring right through him while they came to terms with the revelation.

"And?" Agent Ross asked, wanting more information because what Weasel provided wasn’t good enough for them. It never was.

"That's it,” Weasel insisted. “The asshole left and Tombstone stayed for another drink before leaving."

"You didn't hear anything else?" Captain America probed. "Nothing at all?"

"Of course I did."

And the Avengers were thrown into another loop. "You did?" the Falcon gaped at Weasel, befuddled by the whiplashing, almost contradicting statements, "... are you going to tell us or you just gonna leave us hanging?"

Weasel put up a defense. "I didn't hear it from the source. It's all second-hand," he rambled with a dismissive gesture. That didn’t sway the Avengers. They were too interested to disregard the rumors. They wanted to know more. So, Weasel obliged to their whims. "Rumor was that someone called in for the Taskmaster."

"Taskmaster?" Falcon repeated, dubious at the name. "What's with all these nicknames? Can't you give us a  _legal_ name?"

"I would if I knew it," Weasel snipped. "No one knows his real name. Just that he's called Taskmaster and he's a notorious merc. Trains other mercs as well. He's badass."

“Sounds like you love the guy.”

“You can respect a person’s talent,” Weasel returned with a clipped tone. “Doesn’t mean you have to like them.”

Captain America looked over at the young woman. Scarlet Witch stared at him. Her focus was almost hypnotizing as she fluttered her fingers in the air again. A red light flashed before Weasel’s eyes and he saw an array of visions overcoming him. Everything was moving backwards, like his life was rewinding before him. His stomach churned and his vision started to go blurry. He nearly passed out when it all became clear again.

He slouched back into the liquor cabinets as he regained his posture while the Avengers all looked to the girl for a response.

Scarlet Witch brought her hands down. “He’s telling the truth,” she reported. “It’s all he knows.”

“What the fuck?” Weasel moaned, hand on his forehead to nudge the last remnants of the ache banging against his skull. “Did you just mind raped me?”

“Easy pal,” Captain America said. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“And there’s no need to violate a person’s mind!” Weasel shot back, feeling a bit woozy. “Shit… is my nose bleeding? I think my brain is melting.”

“You’re fine,” Falcon grumbled, showing no pity for him. “Stop being a whuss.”

“Stop being a jackass.”

Falcon rolled his eyes, not even deeming it worthy for another comeback as Captain America whispered with Agent Ross. After a brief discussion, Agent Ross gathered up the photographs into a stack.

"Are you willing to repeat what you told me in front of a judge?" Agent Ross asked him. “About this Tombstone fellow and Mr. Osborn? Your testimony would be valuable in the case.”

Weasel picked his head up again, dropping his hands away from his head. "No."

" _No_?"

"Yeah, no," Weasel affirmed his answer. He had no interest in diving further into the situation.

Agent Ross stared, dumbfounded. "You won't testify?"

“Do you not understand the word ‘no’?” Weasel grew frustrated with the talk. “You need me to say it in another way? How about… fuck no. Or hell no! Or maybe you might understand—”

Captain America cut him off. “We get it,” he said. “What we want to know is _why_? You would be helping putting bad people away. Stop them from abusing power and picking on the innocents.”

“Do I look like a fuckin’ cop? Or a soldier?” Weasel pointed to his tousle of curls, unwashed jeans and shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. “I want no part of this. I’m a bartender. That’s it.”

“We could subpoena you,” Agent Ross suggested, but it sounded more of a threat to Weasel than a mere suggestion. “Make you testify in front of a judge.”

"I could also tragically die," Weasel remarked. If he became a high-profile snitch, every single patron of this establishment would come after him. And having Deadpool and/or Avengers side with him, won’t keep him alive from their wrath. "So, I'm going to stick with my previous answer."

His verdict disappointed the Avengers. They hoped to claim him as an eye witness, but that was never going to happen. He gave them the details, it was now their turn to figure out a way to prove it. Weasel did his _civic duty_. Now, he had bartending duties to handle.

Agent Ross resigned, wiping a hand down his face. “What about a camera?” he asked, checking the ceilings for any surveillance. “Do you have a security camera or something we could use as physical evidence?”

Weasel shook his head. “Uh, no. The only security we have are the patrons that come to the bar… oh, and a shotgun underneath the bar,” he answered. “Anyway, having a security camera gets our customers nervous. They don’t like being monitored.”

“No surprise there,” remarked Falcon. “So—there is nothing to help us other than your word and a comic book. And, honestly, your word is shit if you refuse to testify, so all we really have is this comic book.”

Weasel half-shrugged. “Better find another way to get other evidence,” he mockingly suggested. “Look—I can’t help you more than what I just told you. Okay? I have a reputation to uphold and a job to do. I can’t give you anything else. You have to find this shit out on your own.”

Captain America’s gaze flickered to him. His composure a reminiscent of a soldier, looking back at a disrespecting hoodlum. “We get it. Honestly, this is a dangerous line of work we are in,” he said, not condescending. It sounded earnest, “but… this isn’t about reputations or a job. It’s about lives.

“One life was nearly taken and another life is still in danger. A child’s life, no less,” Captain America continued his speech. “And if you truly don’t want your hands to get dirtied, then maybe you should rethink your lifestyle. Because, from where I see it, your hands will never be clean.”

No wonder he was called fucking Captain America. A walking-talking-living moral code. Guilt trip anyone into doing what he deemed was the right thing to do. Shit. Weasel wondered how many times his teammates wanted to sucker-punch him in his pearly white teeth.

Because, he really wanted to. “Yeah… I’m still going to have to say no,” Weasel said. “Thanks for laying on the guilt and everything, but not going to change my mind. I’m a coward. I think I told you that last time too. I know my place in all this and it’s right here. Behind this very bar.”

Captain America frowned, disappointed. But he conceded to his whims. “Very well,” he said. “We will be on our way.”

“What?” Agent Ross blasted. “We don’t have anything—”

“And neither does he,” Captain America said. “He’s not willing to go on record, so nothing here will help us. Better find evidence somewhere else.”

The other two Avengers followed the Captain’s lead. They got off their stools and walked behind him, not even glancing back at Weasel. Agent Ross huffed his frustration before stuffing the papers back in his bag and running after them.

They nearly reached the door when Weasel remembered something. “Wait!”

They all stopped. Captain America looked back to him, hopeful. “Don’t get your hopes up,” Weasel rebuked. “I’m not having a change of heart here. This isn’t a fucking Disney film.”

He moved down the bar where a safe was hidden behind rows of booze. “I have something.”

The Avengers slowly returned to the bar while Weasel squatted down to twirl the lock’s combination. The safe unlocked and he grabbed the duffel bag stuffed inside the safe.

“I was told to give this to you,” Weasel tossed the bag onto the bar and slid it over to the heroes. None of them went to grab it, leaving it untouched on the bar.

The All-American hero eyed it, cautiously. “What is it?”

"How the hell should I know?" Weasel said. "I didn't go snooping through it. Deadpool brought it over and said that when you guys come over for a visit, to pass it along to you."

“Deadpool?” Captain America repeated for clarification.

Weasel nodded.

That got their faces all screwed up. They awkwardly glanced at the duffel, uncertain to even be near it. Slowly, Captain America reached over and took the handles in his hands, lifting the bag off the bar.

"Please tell me it's not body parts," the Falcon prayed as he tilted away from the bag. "I don't want to see severed limbs."

Captain America shook his head. "Too light to be that," he said and he looked back to Weasel. "Did Deadpool say anything else?"

Weasel had to think. "Oh, yeah, he did," he remembered. "Said to tell you guys to hurry up already. He's tired of waiting for you to catch up."

"Did he really say that?" Agent Ross queried, disgruntled.

"No," came Weasel’s sharp reply. "I just did the G-rated version because there's a girl in the room."

The scarlet-haired girl dropped her head to the side, her fingers twirling as red light glowed from her tips.

Weasel backtracked. “I mean, because there’s a, um, woman. Lady! I mean, there’s a lady present and I don’t want to… um…”

Captain America touched the Scarlet Witch’s shoulder. The red light was gone. “Thank you, Weasel,” he said. “If Deadpool ever wants to talk… face to face. He knows he can come to us.”

Weasel snorted. “Yeah… he doesn’t really do team-ups. Kind of likes doing his own thing.”

“I’m sure,” Captain America agreed. “But if he ever changes his mind and wants to share intel, let him know we are willing to listen.”

Weasel shrugged, but jerked a nod to show he would pass on the message. The Avengers left, much to Weasel’s relief. He needed to figure out a way to keep them off the premises. Maybe list a meet-point so that his customers won’t get the idea that he’s blabbering to the Avengers of all their criminal activities.

Weasel returned to his duties, finishing inventory and pouring himself a double shot. He needed it after that interrogation.

“So you _do_ drink of the job?”

Weasel spat out his tequila. “Shit! Wade!”

Wade Wilson, dressed in running attire with his hood up to cover his ugly, burned head sat in a booth, lounging with his feet propped up on the table.

He was picking at his teeth, trying to scrape off any last traces of food. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” he said, turning his head in another direction, staring off at nothing. “Kids—drinking alcohol on the job is not a good coping mechanism. Better to drink it with a woman you want to fuck, followed by a shot of morphine. That will numb the pain physically and emotionally. Fun tip from your fellow life counselor, Deadpool!”

Weasel flipped his hair back from his face, ignoring Wade’s side dialogue. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough, pal,” Wade answered, voice low in a theatrical manner. “Long enough.”

“So, like, two minutes?”

Wade cocked his head. “Yeah, about two minutes,” he said, sliding his feet off to the floor and jumping out of his seat. “Saw that the Avengers made a quick visit. Did you give them my present?”

“Yeah, after they nearly drilled me into pieces,” Weasel said as Wade joined him at the bar. “That one bitch read my mind. Can you believe it? Felt totally violated. And Apple-Pie face hero tried to guilt me into testifying.”

“You told them you were a coward right?”

“Twice!” Weasel held up two fingers in a dramatic flair. “I thought I was clear on that, but nope.” He poured another shot of tequila for himself. “But, I told them all I knew and passed along your bag.”

“And I thank you.”

“What was in it?” asked Weasel. "Not body parts right? I don't want to be complicit in this."

Wade flicked something off his finger. “Oh, nothing like that. Just boring stuff. Documents and plans. Notes that Tombstone made. Observations and etc. Things that might help them catch up to me.” Wade’s face suddenly went sharp. “What? I’m being a good Samaritan!”

Weasel pretended he didn’t hear the last comments as he drained down a shot. He released a breath of relief as the cool liquor washed his throat. “Oh boy. That’s the good stuff,” he murmured, smacking his lips. “So, um, gotta tell me. Did you really do everything that you drew in that comic?”

Wade’s eyes lit up like starlight in the darkness of his hoodie. “They showed off my comic!” he exclaimed, giddy in delight. “Tell me, did I nail the character details? I thought I did a good job.”

“Well, you certainly got Tombstone down,” Weasel commented, “but what the fuck man? Why did you draw me like a girl?”

“How else do you draw someone with curly hair?” Wade countered. “Anyway—did they say how Baby Boy reacted to it?”

Weasel brought out another shot glass. “I don’t think your ‘Baby Boy’ ever saw it,” he said, pouring the tequila.

Wade’s mouth fell open. “Gasp! How dare they!” he half-shouted, grabbing the shot glass and drinking its full contents in one gulp. “I specifically labeled the envelope for P. Parker. Spidey-Boy. Isn’t that illegal? Opening another person’s mail.”

“Well, I think the blood may give them probable cause,” Weasel reasoned. “Anyway, did you really blow up Tombstone?”

Wade innocently shrugged, his finger tracing a circle on the bar. “Maybe…”

“Wade.”

“Okay, yeah, I blew him up,” Wade confessed, smacking his hand on the table. “He deserved it.”

“Because he shot Stark?” Weasel was confused. He knew very well Wade Wilson didn’t give a damn about Tony Stark. Nor would he go out of his way to assassinate another individual for it.

Wade violently shook his head that Weasel almost though it would snap off. “I don’t give a pound of flesh about Stark,” he said. “I disposed of Lady Lonnie because of what he was going to do next.”

“What was he going to do next?” Not that Weasel cared much. After all, Tombstone was dead.

Wade’s face contorted into a devil’s anus. Hell cracking over the burns as a single though burned within him. He grip on the shot glass made a creak and a fracture line crawled up the glass.

His dark eyes stared deep at Weasel, nearly making him want to run. Deadpool leaned in. “Once Stark was dead, Tombie planned to pull off another massacre,” he revealed in a steady growl. “Shoot up Stark’s funeral and during the chaos, kidnap Baby Boy. Smuggle him out of the country to some far away location.”

“Like Tahiti?”

“Like what—Tahiti?” Deadpool shot his head up with a ridiculous expression. “What the fuck? No! Not Tahiti! Somewhere in desolate obviously. What? Why would he take the baby to paradise? God—I mean… did I not say it right? Was my tone too cheery when I was telling you of his plans? I mean… fucking Tahiti? What? Was he planning a honeymoon trip with the kid? Jesus Christ, Weasel. Fucking Tahiti?”

“It’s a far away place!” Weasel tried to argue, but it fell flat with Wade.

“No—it’s not. Not the far away place I was referring to,” Wade scolded, incredulous over Weasel’s response. “Jesus—really?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, babe,” Deadpool said, tone becoming less agitated. “Just be smarter. Jesus.”

Weasel apologetically offered another round of shots. “So… Tombstone was going to use Stark’s funeral to kidnap the kid?” he reviewed the plan aloud. “And do what exactly? Just drop him off at your desolate, far away place?”

Wade snapped a gun finger at Weasel. “Bingo!” he said. “Osborn wanted him to be taken to some old facility of Oscorp. Shut down a long time ago, but that was where he was to be taken.”

Weasel nodded along and took another shot. “Shit man,” he said after a moment. “What’s so goddamn special about this kid? Other than, you know, that he has magical powers or some shit.”

“When you meet him, you’ll understand,” Wade dreamily answered. “He’s simply the best. Like… even when you want to strangle him, you love him. I mean, he’s like my counterpart. Like a bromate! Yes! A bromate.”

Weasel wrangled a brow. “I thought I was your bro?”

“And you are,” Wade assured him, reaching his hand out to him. “But, Peter is my _bromate_. And if this dipshit wants to kidnap him because he has some delusional sense of ownership, then he’s going to feel my guns up his ass.” Wade turned his head to the side. “And I don’t mean that figuratively.”

Weasel looked in Wade’s direction and saw no one. “Still hearing the voices?”

Wade snapped his attention back to him. “What? Why?” he bumbled, but then lowered his voice. “Do you hear them too?”

“No!” Weasel exasperated. “You’re just acting a bit funny.” He took the shot glasses and put them in the sink behind to be washed for later. “I’m guessing you’re going to assassinate this Osborn fellow then?”

Wade nodded. “Oh, yeah. He’s on the top of my list,” he said. “Him and Ross.”

“The agent that came in here?”

“No, his distant relative.”

He meant Thaddeus Ross. “Oh. Got it,” Weasel said, wiping down the bar. Although it was kind of pointless. It would get filthy in the first five minutes of opening. “Didn’t you already confront him?”

“Yeah, but I had Baby Boy to consider and care for,” Wade explained. “I honestly didn’t think Ross was going to make it, but he got rescued and everything. It’s not something I’m happy about. Let’s change the subject.”

Weasel shrugged, indifferently. “Well, the Avengers wanted me to pass on something to you.”

Wade shot up like a little boy about to receive a real treat. “What?”

“They said if you ever want to talk, you can come to them.”

And Wade deflated just like that. “Argh. Boring! I won’t talk to them,” he said before a sly smile came to his face, “unless…”

“I don’t think your Baby Boy would be in attendance,” Weasel crushed Wade’s unspoken hope. He knew Wade would want to talk to Peter rather than the others. “Also, I doubt they would even agree to it. They all seem high-strung over him.”

Wade dropped his chin in his palm. “I know. It’s depressing,” he said. “I can’t even watch him from afar like I used to do.”

“That is… best you keep that to yourself,” Weasel said. “You know… laws and felonies. That sort of thing.”

“Ugh… yeah, I know. Vanessa keeps telling me the same thing,” Wade groaned, pouting like a petulant child. “She knows how badly I want to adopt the little Spidey-Boy, but she said we can’t abduct him and raise him as our own. Laws and felonies.”

“She’s a smart woman.”

“Isn’t she?” Wade fell into another dream-like stupor. “Speaking of which, I need to go.”

Wade reached over and grabbed a bottle from behind the bar. “Want to surprise Vanessa with dinner,” he said. “And then I need to start planning out my assassination on Osborn.”

“Why can’t you buy your own alcohol?” Weasel moped as he Wade snatched up one of the more expensive bottles. “Do you have to steal it from here?”

“Where else can I get free alcohol?” Wade argued, spreading his arms out. “You see? No where else.”

Weasel rolled his eyes. “Fine—but you owe me one.”

“I’ll give your dick a good suck on Friday, babe!”

Weasel threw up his middle finger. “Good luck with the Osborn assassination,” he shouted to Wade’s back as the mercenary skipped out of the bar.

Wade’s hands formed a tentative heart shape before he left the bar. Weasel was officially alone with simply his thoughts and all the alcohol he wanted.

Thank god! Weasel dropped on the seat behind the bar as he popped open a tin of peanuts and a Corona.

God—he needed to call in a personal day.


	25. Shuri II

“Do you not have something to do other than spin in a chair?” Shuri remarked, not lifting her eyes from the microscope. Too engaged with watching the nanites interact with the synthetic flesh Dr. Cho provided for her experimentation.

She heard the chair come to a squeaking halt. A loud, bored sigh followed after. “Nope,” came Peter Parker’s response. “Nothing.”

Shuri finally lifted her head from the microscope. Peter was dressed in casual attire. Not even jeans. Sweatpants and a SHIELD logo shirt that was left over from the days he first came to the Compound. Hair was a bit wild than normal. Or perhaps longer. And he looked tired, but not in the physical sense.

“What about DUMBO? Why don’t you work on it?” Shuri suggested.

“Because I need Tony’s help.”

Shuri flickered her gaze to where Tony Stark laid frozen in a capsule. He had been hibernating for nearly a week now and Shuri and Dr. Cho’s process haven’t garnered the results they wanted. The nanites were not cooperating with the synthetic tissue Dr. Cho created, making it almost impossible for them to heal Tony in time without his organs failing.

Shuri thought. “What about school?” she proposed, remembering him working on course work during her last visit. “Don’t you have some kind of paper to write? Or math problems to compute?”

Peter spun in the chair again. “I finished the whole online course a month ago,” he answered. “Tony was trying to arrange a MIT professor to be a tutor for me. That’s been… postponed.”

Shuri didn’t realized how invested Tony was in Peter’s life. “What about your friends?” she tried. “Ned? Michelle? That Harry guy? Thought about hanging-out with them?”

“They’re studying for finals happening next week,” Peter said. “Don’t really have time to hang-out with grades on the line.”

Shuri didn’t understand the hype of a simple letter-grade. The importance was knowledge. Why did Western cultures not covet knowledge? That was far more important than receiving a gold star or a letter-grade. So bizarre the way these cowboys value certain things above others.

“Your education system is confusing to me,” Shuri decided with a dismissive shrug. “What’s the big deal about an A or a C? It’s frivolous.”

She got Peter to twist his mouth into a smirk. “It’s more of an effort grade,” he joked. “But, it’s important. If you want to go onto college that is.”

“College… you mean university?”

“Same thing,” Peter said flatly, dropping his head in his hand. “Anyway, even if they didn't have finals coming up, it’s not like I can go out and see them.”

Shuri bunched her brows together. “What do you mean?” she questioned. “Are you guys fighting?”

Based off the tales Peter told her when he lived with her family, his circle of friends were close-knitted. Even when she met Ned and Michelle, she recognized their strong bond of friendship. Like nothing changed between them as it became known Peter was Spider-man and now, world famous.

The only change was Harry. The new kid. He and Peter were kind and friendly to one another. At first glance, Shuri would think they were old friends, gabbing on and on about topics that she had little interest. Closer inspection, she saw the tinge of envy in those brilliant green eyes. The lurking resentment and bitterness in that strained grin. While it was not the strongest emotion within Harry, it laid in wait, ready for an awakening.

Shuri wondered if that was the reason. If his friendships were broken by a single fight between him and Harry, but before she could further her investigation, Peter shook his head.

“Nah, not fighting,” Peter disproved her theory. “Just life gets in the way. They have school and decathlon. And me… I—well, I live all the way up here, so there’s that. It’s just harder for us to get together.”

“Uh-huh,” Shuri was not convinced. “You know there is such a thing as a car. Has four wheels. Can take you from point A to point B.”

Peter gave her a look. “It’s not that,” he said and turned his chair to face her. “I can’t leave.”

Shuri looked quizzically at Peter. “Intoni?” she cracked a smile. “Of course you can.”

“No,  _I can’t_.”

That didn’t make sense. “What are you talking about?"

“They—the Avengers—won't let me leave the premise.”

Shuri threw her head back, laughing at how ridiculous his proclamation sounded. Tears even squeezed out from her eyes. That only upset Peter.

“It’s not funny!”

Shuri smothered her laughter, but kept the smile. "I saw you on television. Out and about in, where? LA? At one of those basketball games,” she reminded him, remembering seeing Peter on the world screen a few weeks ago. Then, she winked at him. “Nice catch by the way.”

Peter tucked his lips into a pout. “No, no, it’s not—” he got agitated. “Ever since the incident with Deadpool and the Secretary, they won’t let me out of their sight. I can’t even step outside without someone stepping right on my heels.

“Even when I was in LA, Tony wouldn’t let me go anywhere. Pretty much stayed inside the hotel suite,” Peter picked at a mark on the table. “Didn’t even go to the ocean. Saw it, but never went in it.” He let out a long, peeved sigh as he glanced around the room. “I know when I’m being held, Shuri. I’ve got enough experience to know. A glided cage is still a cage.”

“They’re being protective,” Shuri weakly defended. After all, she knew the feeling of being trapped. As a Princess, she was never truly alone. Brother too guarded. Guards trailing her footsteps. People watching her every word and action.

“Overprotective,” Peter’s shoulders slouched, forehead puckered in thought. “They’re investigating something. Something involving me. Nat said as much, but no one will tell me,” he said and his eyes flickered to Tony. “That’s why Tony got shot. I know it.”

“Stark has many enemies,” she reminded him.

“Call it my spider-sense, but it’s not that,” Peter said, crossing his arms in front. “Something about all this is connected to me. I thought it was all over with Secretary Ross being fired and the Accords being re-written, but no. There’s something else. Something more troubling if the Avengers won’t let me go anywhere.”

“Maybe they have a point, though. Stark did get shot,” Shuri pointed to the cyro-stasis chamber. “They probably don’t want you wandering around if there’s a madman with a gun shooting up heroes.”

Peter scoffed. “I’m Spider-man,” he stated, arrogantly. “I don’t need protection. I can heal from a bullet wound. Far better than Tony, at least.”

Shuri had to restrain herself from smacking Peter’s face. Only an idiot would believe in invincibility. All heroes fall. Either in death or in name. There was no escape from such a fate and for Peter to casually dismiss life’s guarantees was arrogant and rude.

“Well, then,  _Spider-man_ ,” Shuri remarked with a clipped tone. “If that’s the case, why don’t you investigate on your own? You have the suit, right?”

He fidgeted in his seat, voice screeching to a halt in minor hesitation. “I do, but, well... Nat knows.”

“Nat?”

“Black Widow,” Peter clarified. “She caught me wearing it and if I go out in it… she’s threatened to take it away from me.”

“What about just sneaking around here?” she suggested. “Like when they have their meetings listen at the door?”

“I tried that already,” Peter said. “FRIDAY threatened to tattle on me. Plus, the room where they do their briefings is sound-proof. I can’t hear a word they say. Even with my advanced hearing.”

Shuri gave up. Nothing she offered seemed good enough to preoccupy him and Peter kept coming up with lame excuses to counter her suggestions. “Sounds like a real problem,” she muttered in finality. “Best to leave me alone and figure it out.”

“Hey!” Peter protested, hurt.

“I have work to do,” Shuri contended, thinking of her own scientific problems at hand. “Don’t have time to listen to your whiney, white boy problems.”

Peter started to counter-argue, when his words died at the tip of his tongue and he sagged in his seat. “Sorry, you’re right,” He exhaled, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m being annoying. Sorry. Ugh—just a bit stressed.”

That was no big surprise. Who wasn’t? Nothing has ever been smooth sailing since the Accords. Ask any human on the planet. “We’re all stressed,” Shuri said, but slackened her face to one of sympathy. “But I know you suffer from it the most. If you really need to do something, go fetch me slide E. Over there. On that table.”

Peter obliged, pushing his rolling chair hard from the table. He sailed across the room effortlessly. He glanced at the tray of slides that Shuri created before gently lifting the slide she needed and returned to her.

“Here you go,” Peter handed the slide to her. Shuri switched slides while Peter’s gaze drifted to Tony’s frozen face. “He’s okay in there, right? I mean… he’s not going to suffer any damages like—”

“Both Captain America and Sergeant Barnes underwent the same process and for much longer periods of time,” Shuri interrupted Peter before he got himself worked up. “Mr. Stark is fine. He’s alive.”

Peter numbly nodded. “Okay.”

He fell back to his normal silent self, eyes staring aimlessly as his mind barraged him with thoughts or memories or fears. Something that kept him preoccupied from Shuri. She returned to her work, studying her new slide. Same results as the other slide. Massive disappointment. The nanites and synthetic flesh didn’t interact in the manner she hoped.

Shuri tapped her pencil against the table, frustrated. Perhaps synthetic flesh isn’t the way to go. It worked for Clint when he took a blast to his side, but Shuri didn’t believe the plastic flesh would work for Tony. His injuries were far too severe to be fixed by plastic.

She did consider real flesh. There was some reservations in testing out her theory of integrating nanites with organic matter. Nanites were new technology and not yet tested on all matters on the planet. If she manipulated organic matter with nanites, what blasphemy might she create?

Or what brilliant advancement for humanity?

She knew what she must do.

Shuri rolled across the lab to the scalpel, disinfecting it before digging the scalpel into her own skin.

Peter launched from his seat. “What are you doing?” he freaked, mouth hung as he watched her cut a sliver of skin from her finger.

“Testing out a theory,” Shuri responded. “Hand me a clean slide.”

Peter gaped a little longer on her bleeding finger, but eventually he squirmed into a run to the cabinets and came back with a new slide from the box. Shuri snatched it from his fingers and dropped the blood and skin on the slide.

Not a second after the blood dropped on the microscope slide, Shuri felt her hand be gripped and redirected away from the equipment. “Hold still,” Peter ordered.

He took Shuri’s bleeding finger and wiped the blood away with a disinfected wipe. Already, he had a bandage in his hand. “This is crazy,” he mumbled as he cleaned the cut and wrapped a bandage around her finger. “There! Let me know if it bleeds through.”

“Thanks,” Shuri said as Peter smiled before throwing away the debris. “Grab that container on your way back.”

Peter picked up the container. “What are you going to do?”

“I think you already know.”

“I do,” Peter swallowed, nervous. “Shuri… nanites haven’t been used outside of automation. Dr. Cho advised—”

“If we all stayed careful, then nothing would ever be accomplished,” Shuri sliced through Peter’s warning. “You want to save Stark, right?”

“Of course!”

“Great!” Shuri said, snatching the container from Peter’s hands. “Thula kwaye ndincede!”

Peter instantly stopped speaking and simply dropped his shoulders in defeat. Shuri inserted a lone nanite onto her blood sample. Peter pressed a cover slip over it. It was ready! She felt pumped. Excited! All those stresses and worries were long forgotten, replaced with the prospect of a brand new discovery. Her heart giddied as she slipped the slide underneath the scope. Face lowered, she pressed her eyes into the lens and fixed the scale. Waiting. Watching.

Her mouth fell. “Mka…”

Peter crowded her, hovering over her shoulder. “What? What’s happening?” he pestered her. “Shuri?  _Intoni_?”

Shuri raised her eyes from the microscope and Peter took the moment to get a peak for himself. “Whoa…” he raised his own head, eyes on Shuri as he too absorbed what he witnessed through the lens. “Do you think?”

“Remove the cover slip,” Shuri ordered. She didn’t know for certain, but she was certainly going to find out.

Peter did his best to slide the cover slip off, exposing the tiny bit of skin and blood to recycled air. Shuri twirled another scalpel and, with great care, sliced through the tiny sample of skin on the slide. As she cut, she watched through the lens.

The minute the sharp blade dug into the grooves of the skin, a miracle occurred. “Okhokho!"

“Let me see,” Peter insisted and Shuri made room, handing him the scalpel to witness what she did seconds ago. Peter’s reaction was similar.

“Jesus…” he muttered, popping his head up. “We gotta tell the others.”

“Not yet,” Shuri stopped Peter from heading to the door. “We need more tests and… recordings. Videos and that sort of thing.”

She reached into her bag, drawing up electronic pads and her kimoyo beads. She connected the beads to her device. “Okay… first, we need a bigger sample.”

“You are not cutting your finger off,” Peter directed, his nose rumpled in distress at the mere thought of her slicing off her finger.

“Sidenge,” Shuri chuckled in bewilderment. “Why would I cut my finger off?”

Peter relaxed, smiling a bit easier when his jaw tensed again. “Wait… what… no,” he said, backing away. “No—nope. Not happening.”

Shuri rolled her eyes. Boys were idiots. “I’m not stealing a finger from you either,” she said in hopes to calm his bloody imagination. “I was thinking more in the lines of another.”

Peter warily stretched up his eyebrows. “I don’t know if I like what you are thinking…”

“Trust me, Peter,” Shuri said, getting up from her seat. “I’ll be back with our test subjects.”

* * *

“Peter and I went a little off the reservoir these past few hours,” Shuri started her presentation to her gathered crowd. The crowd contained the expected individuals like Captain America, Pepper Potts, Dr. Cho, Colonel Rhodes and, of course, Peter. They all listened in as she explained her discovery.  “Synthetic flesh wasn’t interacting with the nanites as we hoped, so we decided to make the next jump. We tested it on organic matter.”

Shuri brought up her hologram of her conducted experiment. “We injected nanites into our first sample of flesh and blood. And… the results were instant. See here,” she pointed to the blue diagram that popped up from the screen. “That’s the cut on the sampled tissue and when I added a single nanite into the injured area…”

She dabbed at her electronic pad and the screen moved as the audience watched the nanite in action. The nanite in the diagram rapidly heal the injured tissue, sealing the cut and making it anew again. “The infected area immediately beings to heal. The nanite connects and reproduces the actual blood and flesh to restore the tissue to its original form.

“We furthered our test by experimenting on a house plant,” Shuri said, switching slides to show a hologram of the conducted experiment with the plant. “As you can see, the injected nanites attached to the planet’s molecules that when we snipped off the leaves, new leaves are instantly blossoming over the old stubs.”

The video captured the plant’s leaves rebirth after a pair of scissors snipped away every leaf on its stem. And each time, the leaf was snipped a new one grew in place. Not too big and not too small. Almost identical to its lost sibling.

“Nanites are programmed to manipulate matter, which includes organic matter,” Shuri dwindled to a close on her demonstration. “I believe that nanites will be able to manipulate the injured organs and tissue that Stark sustained into healing itself. Just like it did on the sampled skin tissue and the plant’s leaves.”

The diagram replayed the plant’s experiment. The group watched the leaves regrow, coming back to life despite the looming threat of being snipped away.

“That’s… incredible,” Pepper approached the hologram, amazed. “You really think it will work on Tony’s injuries?”

“I cannot guarantee it,” Shuri admitted. There were no guarantees, but all the evidence pointed in the positive direction. “My theory is that once we activate the nanites to Stark’s bloodstream, the nanites will rebuild the damaged organs and tissues. But—”

There was always a ‘but’ that got everyone to stiffen and tense in anticipation for the bad news portion. “Stark endured severe injuries and the moment we pull him out of stasis, we are losing him. If the nanites are not quick enough, he may die from his injuries.”

“Can’t you inject the nanites while he’s in stasis?” Colonel Rhodes asked.

“Can’t,” Peter interjected, hands shoved awkward in his pockets. “The cryo-stasis is keeping him and his cells in suspended animation. The nanites won’t respond to something that is, in essence, un-alive.”

“Exactly,” Shuri agreed with Peter’s analysis. “Stark needs to be out of the chamber in order for the nanites to properly interact with his cells. But, it poses the risks of him succumbing to his injuries.”

Captain America drew a hand down his face after one long sigh. “What do you think?”

“I personally think this is our best shot,” Shuri answered, glancing up at her and Peter’s recorded experiments. “It’s the only way to revive him.”

“Sorry, I meant Miss Potts,” Captain America apologized for the misdirection, but smiled at Shuri, “but thank you. Your opinion is insightful and valued.” The Captain turned fully to Pepper. “What do you think, Pepper? You’re his fiancée. The choice is yours." 

Pepper Potts bit her lower lip, eyes looking away from everyone and back to the diagram. It was replaying Shuri’s discovery.

“The nanites," she began, "once they heal Tony’s injuries, will they disappear or—"

"Once we inject them into the bloodstream, they remain,” Shuri described the aftermath of the process. “As for the side-effects of having nanites in one's blood for a period of time... I don't know. A thorough test has yet to be conducted. This is all relatively new.”

“I've worked a bit with nanites with Mr. Stark," Peter spoke up. "Mr. Stark had a theory that the nanites decay over time. You have to actively update the nanites in order to keep something, like Mr. Stark's suit, from malfunctioning.”

"Are you saying that if we don't monitor the nanites in Tony, they could decay and kill him?" Colonel Rhodes asking, sounding less thrilled with the idea of injecting his best friends with the device.

Shuri shook her head. "That's not what he is saying," she took over for Peter. "Theoretically, once the nanites repair the damaged tissues and organs, they will continue to repair any other damages sustained to the body until, like all machines, fail. When that occurs, they will stop working. Doesn't mean it will kill Stark. It only means he can't take a bullet to a leg and walk away without a limp."

“But what about the nanites?" Captain America questioned. "Won't the decay process get him ill or something?”

“Probably," Shuri answered, unsure. "If I have to guess, nausea, fatigue, weakness—symptoms similar to blood poisoning.”

“Blood poisoning?!" Peppered freaked. "That could kill him!”

"Not if we do it accurately," Shuri insisted. "Once we activate the nanites, we can estimate the time they will start to decay and begin the process to flush them out.”

“Why not flush them out once they heal his wounds?” Colonel Rhodes asked.

“We could,” Shuri didn’t see a problem with removing the nanites prior to their decay. “It’ll be a long process and we cannot start too early or we might interfere Stark’s healing process. It’s better to simply wait a little longer after we inject the nanites before we flush them out.”

“How do you plan to flush out the nanites?” Pepper wanted to know, looking at Shuri as her fingers nervously twitched at the edge of her lips.

“Blood transfusion is the best option,” Dr. Cho finally spoke up, but her eyes were examining the hologram of the recorded trials. “The princess is right. It’ll take time to flush the nanites out completely, but it can be done.”

“But the side-effects?”

Dr. Cho looked over to Pepper. “It’s uncertain what the side-effects may be for Mr. Stark,” she admitted. “The medical field have theorized on using nanites in procedures to heal or fix a patient’s condition. Particularly regarding diabetes.”

“So—you think we should do this?”

Shuri shared a look with Dr. Cho, both their expressions mirroring one another. They agreed. It was the best option. “My advice,” began Dr. Cho as she turned to look back at Pepper, “is to test out the procedure. Otherwise, Mr. Stark may remain in the cryo-stasis longer than anyone wishes.”

“Agreed,” Shuri backed up Dr. Cho’s assessment. “It’s our best hope to save Mr. Stark’s life.”

Pepper listened, her mouth formed a rigid grimace. Anxiety riddled her irises as she contemplated the future of her love. Her nervous eyes flickered to where Tony stayed frozen in time, unaware of the debate surrounding his existence.

Finally, she breathed as her hands fell down to her abdomen. “I can’t have Maria grow up without her father,” Pepper softly confessed as she turned her gaze to Shuri. “Do it. Save him.”

Shuri almost wanted to salute Pepper. “We’ll begin preparation for the procedure,” she confirmed, “and start the revival process tonight.”

* * *

The revival process took longer than the former Winter Soldier’s residency. Then again, he went through the process far more times than anyone and his muscle memory must be well adapt to overcoming the cyro-stasis process. Unlike Tony.

Tony’s heartbeat didn’t come to life until an hour after they removed him from his chamber. Doctors and nurses stood by, waiting for a heartbeat signal to alert Dr. Cho and Shuri that it was time to inject the nanites. Shuri got the nanites programmed and ready. Dr. Cho monitored Stark’s vitals, keeping his body in stable condition to avoid any malfunctioning shut-downs before the procedure.

Pepper was in the room too. She never left the minute he was removed from his cyro-stasis chamber. She stayed at his bedside, sometimes talking to him and other times not saying a word. Just silently pleading as she watched him slowly thaw.

“We got a beat!”

That one shout got everyone wildly running. Shuri surged forward to the gurney, nanites in her hand. “Do your work guys,” she muttered to them as she, with Dr. Cho overseeing her.

With great care and focus, Shuri lowered the needle to the open wounds. She struck the needled into a visible vein and injected the nanites. Upon the last drop, she removed the needle and sealed the small injected wound with a cloth.

“There they go,” Shuri announced, putting aside the empty needle. “Now comes the hard part. Waiting.”

And the wait was excruciating painful. Nothing happened. Not at first. Not like the rapid speed they witnessed during the trials. Then again, the skin and plant were not frozen for a period of time before being injected with nanites.

Dr. Cho and Shuri took turns monitoring Tony’s condition. Pepper stayed as long as she could before she had to tend to her daughter. Her parents could only do so much at their age. Shuri promised to keep Pepper updated with any changes.

It neared nine o’clock at night when Shuri replaced Dr. Cho’s shift, taking a seat as she took observation notes. The skin came together nicely. The nanites stitched skin to skin together over the bullet holes that riddled his chest. Yet, the monitors were not as promising as the physical sight.

Blood pressure was low. Both diastolic and systolic. Even his oxygen saturation levels were too low for it to be a good sign. Such reports often signaled the last days of someone’s life.

Shuri pursed her lips together in frustration. “I thought you Stark men are made of iron,” she grumpily quipped at the Tony. “You’re proving that to be wrong. Even with actual nanites in your bloodstream.”

Her phone chirped and she glanced down at the new text message.

_I convinced my parents._

Shuri beamed and typed:  _GR8! What did u tell them?_

She waited for the ping to alert to another message.  _That I already bought the plane ticket._

Shuri laughed aloud:  _Its official then. UR the newest intern._

_Partner._

_I’ll accept that_ , Shuri texted.  _What R U up to?  Peter_ _said something about exams?_

A long pause came after her message.  _Yep. Exams this entire week :(_ _compressing all sorts of facts into my brain._

_What exams do U have?_

_… physics, Spanish, French, English, pre-calculus, & history_

_DAMN_

_I know. But… there is an end of the year school dance on Saturday. Some kind of reward for finishing the semester._

_Are U going?_

Shuri sent the message off when a soft knock on the door, followed by the opening creak, distracted her. Momentarily, she thought it was Dr. Cho checking in on Tony’s status before bed or maybe even Pepper. It was neither. It was Peter

“Hey,” he quietly greeted her as he slinked across the room to where she sat. “How’s everything? Good?”

“The nanites closed the bullet holes,” she pointed to the new skin where the bullet holes once were. “But, the insides are not looking to great. Taking more time than I thought.”

Peter reviewed the monitors before him. “That’s not good,” he observed. “Why aren’t the nanites curing him?”

“It takes time,” Shuri emphasized. “They weren’t minor wounds. He suffered from three, near-fatal wounds. It’ll take time, but…”

Tony’s time was limited. If his vitals didn’t improve, then he was most likely going to succumb to his injuries, despite having no visible wounds to show. “Maybe if we give him a midodrine, it might help his pressure to get back up. Not quite sure though.”

“Have you asked Dr. Cho?”

“She thinks we need to give it some more time,” Shuri and Dr. Cho discussed when to utilize medicine to help Tony’s vitals improve. However, what she read on the monitors were not good at all. “But I don’t know. I’m a bit worried that the organs may be too damaged. Maybe we didn’t inject enough nanites into his bloodstream?”

“Then add more.”

“If we add—”

A ping rung in between them. Shuri looked back down at her phone.

_Probably. I think dances are stupid and cliché, but it’s something to do._

“Who’s that?” Peter asked, although he’s not leaning over to read my messages. “Your brother checking up?”

“No,” Shuri said. Not that T’Challa hasn’t called and asked about her, Tony and Peter. Definitely Peter. Always wanted to know if Peter was hanging around her. “It’s Michelle.”

Peter’s face screwed up. “Michelle?” he pondered. “Michelle who?”

“Michelle.”

Still a blank face.

“Michelle Jones?” Shuri clarified, baffled that Peter didn’t know who she was talking about.

“MJ?” Peter said, surprised. Almost like she had smacked his face awake. “Really?”

“Yes. Why?” Shuri demanded. “Why is that surprising?”

“No—No, I didn’t mean,” Peter flustered, red creeping up his neck to his cheeks. “I meant, I didn’t know you and her… talked. Or were even friends.”

Shuri’s brows lifted in humor. “Of course we’re friends,” she said. “She’s actually coming to Wakanda this summer to help me set up the outreach program around the globe.”

Shock stenciled right into his face, carving lines right along in his forehead and enlarging his eyes. “Oh—wow,” he said, rolling in his lips as he nodded away. “That’s great. I’m… happy that you and MJ get along.”

Shuri paused, studying the awkward angles Peter positioned himself. He fiddled with his fingers, eyes drawn to his feet. His lips moved uncomfortably, as if trying to find the right words to his next sentence.

She was too tired to wait for him. “Why don’t you like me and Michelle talking?”

“What?” Peter quickly responded, fixing his face in bafflement. “I don’t… I don’t care. I mean, I think it’s great you guys are friends and, um, talking to one another. Why would I be upset?”

“Because you are making that face.”

“What face?”

“Your worried face.”

Peter cocked his head innocently to the side, trying to laugh, but only managing a smile. “Why would I be worried?” he questioned. “I’m just surprised. That’s all, considering you and I…”

“You and I what?”

Shuri pushed and pushed Peter into a corner, waiting for him to confess the true reason why he’s upset over the friendship. She crossed her arms, spinning her chair to face him directly.

Peter resigned, shoulders falling as he exhaled. “You know,” he said. “We, um, kissed—”

“So?”

Shuri didn’t see the big deal. They kissed. A few times while Peter lived in Wakanda. She considered Peter to be her best friend, but she would never consider him as her boyfriend. For obvious reasons.

It seemed Peter didn’t see it like that. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s the big deal? How is us kissing have to do with Michelle?” Shuri inquired, interested in hearing his reasoning.

“It doesn’t,” Peter tried to dismiss.

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

He closed his mouth. His eyebrows pinched forward in deep thought. “I just didn’t want it to be awkward for, um you guys—”

“You mean  _you_ ,” Shuri corrected him. “Because you have a crush on Michelle.”

Peter shook his head. “No—she’s just a friend.”

Shuri laughed, swinging her head a bit as she turned away from Peter to check on Tony. “For now.”

Peter sat upright. “What do you mean by that?”

“You like her.”

“Well, yeah, of course. She’s my friend.”

“More than a friend, white boy,” Shuri said, slapping Peter’s arm. Why do white boys try to play everything down? “You  _like_ her. That’s why you are upset about me and her being friends.”

Peter shook his head, still in denial. “No, that’s not it. That’s not—I’m just… surprised MJ befriended you that quickly. She’s doesn’t make friends so easily.”

“She likes to think because most people are annoying,” Shuri said in defense of her friend. At least, that was what Michelle told her. Most of the kids in her schools were losers, too focused on stupid things that don’t truly matter. “Anyway, I’m a cool person. Why wouldn’t she and I be friends?”

Peter went silent, dropping his head as his finger nervously raked through his hair. “I didn’t mean to say you guys shouldn’t be friends,” he countered. “You’re both cool. It shouldn’t be a surprise you both got along.” He took an unsteady breath. “I guess… I figured it would be awkward if it ever comes up. You and MJ talking about…”

Him. He was worried about the fallout if it came to light about their kisses a year ago. Not there would be a fallout, but Peter didn’t know. His sweet heart wanted to avoid causing any drama or pain to both her and Michelle.

Shuri scooted her chair next to him. “Peter… it’s fine, Really!” she assured him. “You’re my best friend. I’ve known for a while you had a thing for Michelle. Even back in Wakanda, I kind of knew. Like the way you talked about her or told me stories about your friends.”

Peter fidgeted. “I didn’t mean—”

“What I am saying, Peter,” Shuri cut him off to finish her speech, “is that I’m not hurt or mad if you start dating Michelle. I like her. A lot.

“You should go for it. Ask her out,” Shuri leaned into him, encouraging Peter to take the dive. She then tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention again. “There’s a dance this coming Saturday. You should ask her to the dance.”

“I don’t know if—”

“No.” Shuri stopped him right there. “Go. Call. Ask. Yiba nesibindi, ingonyama emhlophe.”

Peter paused, taking a deep breath. “So—you’re cool with me asking MJ?”

“Of course! And let’s be realistic, Peter. We would never have a future together,” Shuri quietly disclosed. She had known for a long time. Even before she and Peter first kissed. It wasn’t easy. She really did like Peter, but a relationship would never work. “I’m a Princess of Wakanda. You—a future Avenger. As much as I like you, it would never work for us. Your home is here. My home is Wakanda. Neither of us could ask the other to leave their homes and futures. Right?”

Peter agreeably nodded. Dark, marble eyes gazed right at her with an bittersweet understanding. “I never really thought of it like that,” he admitted. “I guess that’s why girls are smarter than boys?”

Shuri grinned and put an arm around him in a brotherly manner. “Exactly,” she said with a fun smile. “As I said before, you’re my best friend. And as your best friend, you’re an idiot if you don’t call up Michelle and ask her to the dance.”

That got Peter to smile. It was small. Kind. She hadn’t seen one in a long time. As he went to respond, a sharp blare caused them both to flinch, necks turning right at the monitor.

“Mka!” Shuri launched off her seat and right to Tony’s monitors. “Blood pressure is dropping.”

Peter also sprung to his feet, running to Tony’s side. “Mr. Stark! Tony?”

Stupid, white boys, Shuri thought as she rushed to medical cabinets. She searched for the midodrine.

“What are you doing?” Peter shouted at her from Tony’s gurney. “Shuri—he’s dying!”

“Not on my watch,” Shuri muttered as she readied the needle. It would be better if Dr. Cho was here to administer it, but Stark didn’t have time. They were losing him. “Peter? Grab a blood bag from the refrigerator.”

Peter didn’t even hesitate. He sprinted to the glass refrigerator, taking out the blood bag that was specific for Stark. He hurried back to Shuri as she injected the medicine into Tony’s vein. Peter handed the blood bag to Shuri and assisted hooking it up to Stark.

Blood went through the tube and right into Stark, pumping him with more blood as the medicine worked its way through his bloodstream. Shuri watched the monitor, praying to the ancestors for a miracle.

Peter was next to her. She saw that his hand clutching Stark’s hand. The same, puppy-eyed look that she had seen before when he used to beg her brother to let him outside the palace. Or to call his aunt. To call anyone back home. Peter was doing it again, begging for Stark to not give up. To stay with him.

The monitors quietened. Not a dead silence. The rapid, alarming beeps became even tempo, smoother and gentler like a peaceful melody.

The numbers rose up, ticking away. Up and up the numbers went, arriving to the healthy zone. Shuri monitored the oxygen tank. His oxygen levels were rising as well.

“It worked,” Peter muttered beside her.

All the tension released in one deep resignation. Relieved and happy. “I gotta call Dr. Cho,” Shuri told Peter. “Let her know what happened and what we did. Could you call Pepper? I think it might be good she knows as well… Peter?”

Peter wasn’t listening to her. His face was taut in concentration. His mouth thinned as he drew closer to Stark, his eyes not leaving Stark’s face. “Mr. Stark?”

Shuri glanced to Stark’s face. Nothing. “Peter…” she started, not wanting to get his hopes up.

But, Peter stopped her. “He’s waking!” he exclaimed. “I can sense it. He’s… Mr. Stark?  _Tony!_ ”

Shuri shook her head. It was not possible for him to recover that quickly after nearly dying. She reached over to guide Peter out of the room while she fetch Dr. Cho. But, Peter didn’t budged. His glued his feet to the floor.

“Wait! Wait… Shuri,” Peter resisted against Shuri. “Look!”

Shuri flicked a glance to where Peter pointed. Her mouth dropped. A twitch. Not a single, spastic muscle twitch. A twitch of someone awakening. Then, she heard a soft moan. It was barely above a whisper.

“Dear ancestors,” Shuri gasped. She raced to the wall, where the intercom was located. She slammed the red button down. “Dr. Cho? Come to the med-bay immediately!”

She returned back to Stark, situating the progress and monitors as Stark gradually returned to the living. “Mr. Stark?” she called over him. “If you can hear me, please make a sound or pressed your fingers together.”

Another sound came. A louder moan that sounded more like a groan. Then, fingers pressed into the cot. Shuri was amazed. “He’s waking!”

Peter was jubilant. A big smile split his face, glowing in happiness. “I’m going to get Pepper!” he told Shuri, racing off before Shuri agreed to it.

Shuri kept beside Stark, waiting as Stark’s arms shuddered, his lips a breath apart and his eyes fluttered, trying to lift the dark curtain up.

She removed the oxygen mask, letting his lungs take a test on their own. It sounded hoarse and his chest struggle to rise, but it did. It fell and went back up. Again and again and again.

“Mr. Stark?” Shuri said, towering over her patient. “Try to speak if you can.”

Stark’s lips parted a bit more, mouth chapped enough to be slightly crusted. There was a struggle. Shuri saw his Adam’s apple bobbing in an attempt to speak. His lips pulled back and a breath of air escaped.

“Ouch,” came the graveled voice of Tony Stark.

His eyelids retracted, revealing a dazed pair of eyes up at her. Shuri smiled.

“Welcome back to the living, Mr. Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Intoni - what  
> Thula kwaye ndincede - wait and help  
> Mka - fuck  
> Okhokho - ancestors  
> Yiba nesibindi, ingonyama emhlophe - be courageous, white lion


	26. Colonel Rhodes II

Colonel Rhodes walked close to his friend, half expecting him to topple over as they walked the grounds of the compound. Not that Tony Stark had problems since waking up from his long, cyro-statsis induced coma, but Rhodes stayed vigilant to his friend's progress. So far, Tony acted like he was never shot in the chest. His lungs were strong as ever, allowing him to continue his repartee with the other Avengers. He had no problem walking or even exerting any physical strength such as lifting weights, running or tinkering with his Iron Man suits.

All in all, Tony was perfectly healthy. All thanks to those little nanites swimming around in his bloodstream, healing anything and everything that needed to be repaired. Tony declared himself immortal, to which he and others continuously reminded its temporary. Already, they started the process to remove the nanites. 

Still, it didn’t deter Tony from declaring himself a god. Rhodes wished Thor would return to set him straight.

There was a skip in Tony's step as he sauntered across the grass of the compound, taking in the nature around them. "God—beautiful day," he remarked, pushing the pram where his daughter slept. "So good to breathe in fresh air."

Rhodes chuckled. "Having another moment of appreciation?" he asked, remembering the last time Tony had one of these rare, thankful moments. 

"Nah—just fucking glad I get to breathe in fresh air again and none of that recycle crap I've been forced to breathe in since I woke up from the freezer," he said before slapping Rhodey on the arm. "You're sure I don’t have any frostbite on me, right? No discoloration?”

Rhodes rolled his eyes at his friend’s vanity concern. "You're fine,” he answered for the fifty-time in the past two days. “Dr. Cho and Princess Shuri said you came out healthier than you had ever been."

Tony scoffed as they crossed over the path and headed up toward the apartment building. He leaned over the pram, checking Maria. A smile burst on his face seeing the chubby cheeks of his daughter. Maria blubbered in her sleep, much like her father.

Tony inhaled deeply, shuddering a bit that Rhodes thought he was about to cry. When Tony straightened up, any trace of melancholy vanished. “Thank god I wasn’t a human popsicle for a hundred years,” he commented. “Can’t imagine not seeing her grow up.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

Tony didn’t look convinced. His eyes latched on Maria in pensive thought. Or pensive anxiety. “Don’t I?” he whispered as Maria’s arms flapped to the side. “It’s not over, Rhodey.”

Rhodes shook his head. Tony never stopped thinking and worrying and agonizing over millions of possibilities. A trait that made him a genius, but also a sucker for anxiety. “It is for now,” he assured to cheer up his friend. “You’re alive. You’ll get to see Maria grow up. You get to wed Pepper. And, eventually, Osborn will be behind bars along with Secretary Ross. Everything is coming together.”

Tony shook his head. “No, it’s not,” he said, firm in his words. “You think Osborn is the only person who’ll come after us? After _them_?” 

Tony nudged in the direction of his child, but Rhodes was aware of who else he referred to. Truthfully, Rhodes knew that it'll never end. Osborn and Secretary Ross won't be the last enemy of the Avengers.

Or of Peter’s.

“The world has always been dangerous, Tones," Rhodes responded. "You can't think like that or you won't enjoy life's better moments."

Tony scoffed at the cheesy line, but he didn't remark on it. Probably because he was right.

“Remember what happened last time you got caught up with saving the world before it needed to be saved?" Rhodes reminded him.

“The creation of Vision?”

“The destruction of Ultron?”

Tony scoffed at his biggest failure. “Yeah, I’ll never get that smear off my name,” he grumbled, but then sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About losing… about losing her. _Them_...”

He was fidgeting again. His hands searching for something to play and distract him from what his cruel mind. But all he had was the handle of Maria’s pram. “The world is dangerous, Rhodey,” he said. “And I don’t want to die knowing danger awaits my family.”

“Good thing you didn’t die,” Rhodes commented, thankful. “Must be annoying to your enemies.”

“What can I say?” Tony said with a sly grin in return to cover up the melancholy feeling. “Stark men are hard to kill. Even harder now that I’m immortal.”

“You’re not immortal.”

“Says the mortal.”

They entered the lobby of the apartment complex. Through it all the banter and rolling the pram up the steps, Maria stayed asleep. Not once making a peep throughout their conversation.

“Got any plans tonight?” Rhodes asked as they headed toward the line of elevators.

“Just hanging out with my favorite girl,” Tony nudged in Maria’s direction. “Pepper is dropping her parents off at the airport. I told her that they can use the jet, but her parents insisted on not ‘taking advantage’. Whatever that means.”

Tony pushed the pram forward, heading for the elevator. “In any case, I get this sleepyhead all to myself.”

Rhodes cracked a smile as he watched Tony tickle Maria’s stomach. It was heart-warming to see his friend not acting like a billionaire jackass. The baby curled its nose in distraught for a second before relaxing once again.

“Doesn’t even wake up to that,” Tony boasted with a sweet smile. “You’re welcome to join. Just going to review what I missed while I was a popsicle. Read the notes the team left for me. You know, boring stuff that I pretend to do.”

“Oh—I’m aware of your habits,” Rhodes acknowledged with raised brows. “I think I’ll just head back to my apartment. Relax a bit and finish this book that I’ve been reading for the past three weeks. Then probably hit the bed.”

Tony whistled low. “Son of a bitch… when did we get old?”

A twitch of a smile lifted in the corners of Rhodes’ lips. “Happened while you were frozen,” he said, giving his friend a pat on the shoulder. A good-bye for the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

The elevator pinged and to their surprise, it wasn’t empty. Peter Parker stood in the middle, backpack slung over his shoulder. He looked baffled as well, not expecting them to be hanging out in the lobby.

Peter stepped out of the elevator. “Oh, hey guys,” he said, recovering from his initial shock. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Rhodes answered.

“Never better,” Tony affirmed.

Peter nodded along. “That’s great… um… yeah,” he stuttered to an uncomfortable silence. “So, uh, I’ll just be going.”

He moved passed them, heading to the doors. Rhodes didn’t think much of it. He stepped into the elevator to head home when Tony called back to Peter.

“Hey, kid?”

Peter stopped and turned. Tony didn’t make any move to the elevator.

“Where you going?” Tony asked.

“To the movies,” Peter replied. “There’s a theater near Ned’s house that’s doing an Indiana Jones marathon.”

Rhodes stopped the elevator from closing. “Have fun, kid,” he said and he gestured for Tony to hurry. “This elevator won’t hold up forever, Tones.”

Tony flicked his eyes to Rhodes. “Ah… go up ahead,” he said to him. “I’m just going to… um…” Tony didn’t finish his sentence. He ignored Rhodes completely and focused on Peter.

Rhodes heavily resigned, knowing perfectly well that he needed to stay. He felt, deep in his bones, a brewing confrontation. He stepped out of the elevator, letting the door seal shut behind him as he stood by to moderate them. Or to at least keep it civil.

Tony leaned a hand on the stroller, trying his best to act casual. “So, um, kid? How you planning on getting there? Happy taking you?”

Peter shook his head. “I’m taking my motorcycle.”

Rhodes watched his friend’s face morph into utter horror. “Uh… no, you’re not.”

“Why not?” Peter sounded like a normal, exasperated teen upon hearing the word ‘no’. But, it was still unsettling to hear it from Peter. The kid who always doe-eyed Tony’s very presence and words.

“There’s a reason why doctors call bikers ‘organ donors’,” Tony informed the kid. “They’re dangerous. Especially on snow and ice. You’re going to get yourself killed. Besides, you don’t even have a license for it.”

“I got a permit and Cap taught me how—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Tony warned, pointing a finger right at Peter. “You’re not riding that death vehicle with only a permit and a brief lesson with a geezer.”

Peter irritably huffed. The kid knew he wasn’t going to win that battle. “Fine—I’ll call Happy,” he reached into his pocket for his phone.

“No—don’t,” Tony waved him down. “Let him be. Happy doesn’t like driving in the winter. Freaks him out. Timid driver that sort of thing.”

“I’ll call someone else.”

“You know—I think it’s best you stay home,” Tony concluded. “Obviously, you didn’t plan this well and, everyone’s tired after this week. Just stay in, kid. Come on—you can help me update the suit.”

“No.”

It wasn’t a loud proclamation of defiance. No foot stomping or daggered eyes. No whining or tears. Peter stood his ground, eyes locked on Tony, but it lacked any tantrum. Even his response was of a quiet declaration.

Nonetheless, it was bizarre to hear the kid rebel. He was not one to counter-argue Tony on the spot. Always the faithful follower of the great Tony Stark.

Apparently, not anymore.

It took a minute, but Tony recovered from his shock. “I’m sorry… _no_?” he asked to affirm he heard correctly. “No? No… as in ‘No, Mr. Stark, I think I’ll stay in. Work on other things. You know… boring things.’ That type of no?”

Peter’s brows furrowed, indignant. “No as in I’m going out.”

Rhodes swore he witnessed his friend’s face hardened, mouth closed to a straight line. “Did your aunt okay this?” Tony threw out, hoping to hook and sink.

“She would be okay with it.”

“Oh—so she doesn’t know.”

“I sent her a text,” Peter waved his phone in front. “Why are you freaking out? It’s just Ned and me going to watch movies until dawn. It’s not like I’m going out to party and get drunk.”

Rhodes’ brows shot up at the kid’s contended bravado. He certainly wasn’t expecting to hear the kid ever say those words. Ever.

“Do you even know how to party?” Tony caustically ridiculed. “Wouldn’t even expect a kid like you to know what alcohol is. Point is this… you’re still not going.”

Peter gaped at Tony like his final command was as obnoxious as the suits he wore to parties. “Why not?”

“I already told you,” Tony said and Rhodes could hear the frustration leaking out in his friend’s speech. “There’s no one around who can take you and it’s just not a good time to go out.”

Peter crossed his arms. His frown deepening. “You’re lying.”

“About what?” Tony fired in return. “You wanna call Happy? Go ahead. Call him. Ask how he feels about driving on icy roads.”

“Not that,” Peter returned with the same heat in his voice. “You’re lying why you won’t let me go.”

Rhodes froze. His eyes unblinkingly switching from Peter to Tony, half expecting for someone to accuse another or to deny everything. Neither happened. All they did was stare down one another. Like an actual father and son showdown.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony muttered in vexation as he rubbed his jaw. “Look—kid, it’s a no. You’re not going. End of discussion.”

Tony turned the pram back around to the elevator, pushing it to the doors. He walked with his head up, taking his victory with him as he got closer to the elevator doors.

Only, as Rhodes noted, Peter didn’t budge nor did he look away from Tony’s retreating back. “Yes, I am!”

There was more heat in Peter’s voice now. A crackling fire, its flames licking the words. Rhodes heard that one from many voices. Even Tony recognized it and he stopped pushing the pram and, slowly, he rotated around to face Peter once again.

Rhodes recognized the potential danger the flaming words carried. He noted the challenge in their eyes and knew right away he needed to extinguish this fire before it got out of hand.

Rhodes stepped between the two. “Why don’t we talk—”

Tony cut off all peace talks. “You don’t get to be rebellious now, kid,” he said in a clipped tone that brokered no more negotiation. “When I say no, it’s a no. There’s not going to be any of this teenage rebellion crap from the movies. Okay? This isn’t it. So, either you can go to the lab or you can head straight to your room. I don’t give a shit at this point, because I am this close of just tossing you in the elevator no matter what.”

Peter didn’t even blink at the threat. “Go ahead and try,” he said, shifting his feet on the tile to signal his stance. “I’m going to hang out with my friends.”

Rhodes was taken aback by the kid’s newfound audacity to openly challenge the great Tony Stark. Iron Man himself! Tony was gobsmacked too. He simply stared in a stunned hypnosis as Peter turned, clutching the straps of his backpack. The kid marched for the doors, leaving the two adults in shock.

Rhodes heard Tony growl. This wasn’t good.

“FRIDAY—lock down! _Now_!”

Peter had no chance. All the doors and windows disappeared instantly behind thick, metal shields, casting away the setting sun’s light and plunging them into complete darkness until the emergency lights flickered to life. Rhodes scanned around them, using his military training to assess the scene. Every entrance and exit was sealed. They were sincerely trapped in the lobby.

Despite the predicament, Peter didn’t deter. The kid continued his march right to the sealed doors and gave a pull.

Nothing.

He tugged again and again. Harder. Still nothing.

Using both hands, Peter jerked the door with all his strength to no avail. He was locked inside the lobby with them.

“You won’t break it,” Tony called after him. “That’s reinforced titanium. Even the Hulk can’t break through it.”

Peter shoved the door, hammering his shoulder a few times hoping his superior strength undermined Tony’s intelligence. It did not. The kid eventually huffed in surrender, face contorted in peeved frustration as he swung his head to glare at Tony.

“Let me go!”

“Yeah—no.”

Peter bristled at the simple dismissal. “This is _bullshit_!”

Rhodes sucked in a sharp breath. It threw him that the kid cursed. More so that he even knew how to curse. Even Tony showed a bit of surprise by the kid’s reaction. But their shock shattered from a screeching cry of a disturbed child. Maria was awake now and furious over her interrupted nap.

Tony darted his attention to the pram, where hands and legs were angrily flapping everywhere in the air. "Oh, great! Look what you did?" he accused Peter as he scooped up his baby, cradling her in his arms while bouncing a bit to calm Maria down. "You woke her up."

Peter looked a bit guilty for that, but largely ignored it. Too stubborn to back down now. “ _I_ woke her up?” he vociferous sneered. “You shouted first when you ordered an entire, freakin’ lockdown!”

“Wouldn’t had to yell if someone didn’t have a hearing problem,” Tony returned, rocking Maria as she squalled away, unable to find any comfort in her father’s arms. “Shit—I mean… Come on, girl. Quiet down now. For me? No? That’s just great.”

Rhodes stepped up to his friend. “Here, Tones,” he gestured for him to hand over Maria. “Give her to me. I’ll get her back to sleep.”

Tony shook his head. “No, that’s okay,” he waved him off. “Conversation is done. I’m going to head back up while you, kid,” Tony directed his last remark to Peter, "can go straight to your room.”

“And think about what I did?” Peter crossed his arms, letting out a long, drawn exhausted. "Can't you just stop?"

Rhodes quirked up his brows, lost as to what Peter meant. He glanced to Tony, hoping he knew what Peter referred, but he was just as helpless. He had no clue of what Peter meant. In fact, it simply annoyed him that Peter was vague.

"Kid, you gonna need to be specific," Tony told him as he switched arms to cradle his daughter. "I can't read minds. You mean stop yelling at you? Sure—once you stop arguing with me. I told you once before. When the adult is talking, you zip it and do as you’re told."

Peter balled his fingers into fists, mouth scowled deep as if trying to contain the emotional backlash from erupting. Unfortunately, Tony’s continuous talk only made the kid burst.

"Stop trying to be my dad!"

Peter let out the frustrating roar. His cheeks tinting red as his breathing increased to a hearty pant. "Just... stop!" he complained. "You aren't responsible for me! Okay? I can take care of myself."

Almost every word and thought slipped right of Rhodes head. All he could do was look from Peter’s livid face to Tony’s incredulous expression. Everyone was rendered speechless, at a loss of what just occurred. Maybe even unable to comprehend. Over the past year, Rhodes teased Tony for being the kid’s father. He even acted like a godfather in a way to Peter, teaching him a few things here and there, and acting as a buffer when necessary between Peter and anyone else—mostly Tony.

But, hearing the kid shout that he didn’t want Tony to be his dad, it was like a stab to the heart. Not for him, but for Tony. And Rhodes could see it in Tony’s eyes.

However, Tony didn’t tell him that. Rhodes watched Tony recover from his paralysis as he jabbed a finger to the elevator. “Go home,” he stated every syllable like they were iron. “I don’t hear anything else from you tonight.”

“I’m not—”

“Home,” Tony repeated with more heat in his sharper tone. “ _Now_!”

Peter stormed to the elevator, stomping passed Tony with a strong pout. Before he even pressed the button, the doors opened. Without a thought, he hurried in to get away from them, but ended up crashing right into the strong torso of Captain America.

Steve Rogers steadied Peter with his hands after throwing the kid off-balanced. “Whoa, easy there,” he said, still holding Peter. “You okay?”

Peter’s face was red now, but he grumbled his answer. “Fine—going home.”

Steve didn’t step aside from his spot. His eyes lifted from Peter to Tony and Rhodes to the sealed doors and windows. His head tilted up in comprehension of the situation. “Everything all right here?” he asked. “I could hear you both shouting from upstairs. And why are we on lockdown?”

Tony rudely gestured to Peter, but it was Peter who vocally answered him. “Tony is psycho.”

Steve’s brows quizzically arched as he briefly glanced to them. He then look to Rhodes for a reasoning, but all he could do was give an exhausted shrug.

“Okay… why don’t we—” Steve started to say, but Peter didn't wait to hear him out.

He easily broke free of Steve’s grip and moved for the elevator again. Steve stumbled a bit, but recovered quickly enough to stop the elevator doors from closing. “Hold it, son.”

Wrong choice of words. Rhodes watched as Peter shoved Steve’s hand off the elevator doors. “I’m not your son!” he snapped and he slammed the close button, barking at FRIDAY to take him home.

The doors closed before either of the adults could react to Peter’s closing remark. Stunned, confused and angry (from Tony only), riddled the adults left standing in the lobby. Their quietness dulled the emotions to the point that it gave them enough to recover from the previous scene they witnessed. Even Maria slumbered back to sleep as her father continued to rock his arms, no longer remembering the yelling that woke her up first.

Tony let out a long sigh. “Wow. Well, that happened,” he remarked as he carefully settled Maria back in her pram.

Steve turned an eye to Tony. “Care to tell me what exactly happened?”

“Kid threw a temper tantrum.”

“More like you both threw a tantrum,” Rhodes countered to which Tony frowned at him. “Don’t give me that look. You were both ridiculous. Yelling at each other like that.”

“I didn’t have to yell if he listened to me,” Tony tersely replied. “Jesus, Rhodey! You were there! You saw how he bluntly ignored me.”

“And I watched you bluntly ignore him,” Rhodes returned. “It’s called communication, but you guys sorely lack in that department.”

“Someone please fill me in on what happened,” Steve requested, looking to Rhodes for the answer though.

Rhodes was glad to give him the accurate version. He explained the confrontation and the shouting match to him, occasionally being interrupted by Tony’s commentary. Steve listened intensely, mouth firm as he took in everything that was said.

Upon conclusion, Steve nodded. “I see,” he murmured, folding his arms. “Well… you’re going to have to apologize, Stark.”

“What?” Tony half-shouted, keeping his tone low as to not wake Maria. “Look—I don't do apologies. Especially when I'm not in the wrong.”

“This time you have to."

Tony flippantly rolled his eyes at Steve. "That's not going to happen. Kid has to apologize to me," he said. "He's the one who was channeling the Hulk."

"What did you expect?” Steve countered, lifting his shoulders. “Peter’s been holed up here for almost two months. You can’t be surprised that he wants to leave.”

“He can leave!” Tony fired back. “I’m not holding him prisoner.”

Rhodes eyed the sealed windows and doors with a dubious glance at Tony. His friend caught his eyes, but then huffed upon realizing that the lockdown didn’t support his statement.

“Um… FRIDAY?” Tony called out. “You can lift the lockdown.”

That very second, Rhodes watched the doors and windows unseal themselves. Natural light glazed the tiles, making them shine bright in a glitter of gold from the setting sun. The fluorescent lights above them dimmed and everything was back to normal.

Somewhat.

“There,” Tony said as the lockdown was officially lifted. “Done. Now, let’s get back to the real problem—he is not a prisoner here. I mean, come on! It’s not like the Raft, which Ross would have definitely placed him in.”

“You’re still denying him his freedom,” Steve counter-argued. “Peter wants independence. He wants to go out with his friends without one of us tailing him.”

“And he will… once Osborn and Ross are behind bars,” Tony amended. “Until then, we agreed to the protocols set for his protection. Remember?”

Steve drew his mouth down. “I remember, but the protocols agreed upon weren’t meant to last more than three weeks. A month tops! It’s been longer than that now.”

“Better that than preparing a funeral for the kid.”

Steve resigned, rubbing his forehead in tired agitation. None of his words were getting through Tony. Not when he’s acting like this. Rhodes knew. After all, he’s lived with the guy for a few years.

“Tones, can’t you at least recognize that the kid is getting cabin fever?” Rhodes asked his friend. “I mean, it’s not easy even for an adult to be stuck in one place for a period of time let alone a teenager.”

Tony sucked in a breath, appearing sympathetic. “I do know, Rhodey. I do,” he said. “But… if it keeps the kid safe, then I have to do it.”

“At the cost of his own freedom?” Steve questioned, perturbed. “Tony… having no freedom is no life at all.”

“I’m trying to ensure he has one!” Tony growled at Steve before looking between him and Steve. “Why can’t you guys see what I am trying to do? I’m trying to keep that kid alive long enough to at least graduate from high school.”

“That’s admirable, Tony. It really is,” Rhodes calmed his friend. “But… Steve is right. Life without freedom is no life at all. I mean… we all have noticed that Peter’s been acting a bit down these past few weeks. We can at least lift up some of the stricter restrictions. Like letting him be able to go to a movie with his friends without one of there to watch him?”

Steve nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Or just letting him go outside the compound for a few hours? Take his motorcycle out for a spin. Something like that?”

Tony shook his head and started to pace. His neck muscles bulged a bit as he grumbled underneath his breath. “You guys don’t understand,” he said. “You’re not fathers. You don’t… you know what the worst thing was when I got shot?”

Rhodes shared an odd look with Steve. “Dying?” he guessed, but he knew that was not the correct answer.

Tony, still pacing, shook his head. “No. Not even close,” he said and came to a sudden halt to face them both. “It was seeing Norman Osborn standing over me with that stupid, smug look on his face.” Tony’s scowl deepened as his hands wrangled together in resentment. “I never want my last moment on Earth to be of Osborn looking at me like he won the fucking jackpot.”

Rhodes scrunched his face in thought. “How is that the worse than dying?”

“Because I knew who fucking fired that bullet into my chest,” Tony said. “It wasn’t that Tombstone assassin. It was Norman. He hired the hit because he knew that once I was gone, Peter would be vulnerable.”

Rhodes conceded to that analysis, especially after Steve, Wanda, Sam and Everett returned with documents and verbal confirmation that Osborn met up with Tombstone prior to the assassination attempt.

Tony heavily sighed, dropping his head back and staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t lose that kid,” he told them. “I can’t.”

Rhodes stepped up to his friend, hand on shoulder. “I get it, Tony. I do,” he assured his friend. “I know I’m not a father, but I get it. You only want to protect him. We understand that, but there’s a line between protecting and being selfish. Keeping Peter trapped here in the compound, away from his friends and the life he knows, that’s being selfish. That’s not helping him. Hell—that’s only hindering him.

“And we are close to getting Osborn,” Rhodes reminded his friend. “The documents Deadpool left us pretty much nailed his coffin. Everett is doing background checks to ensure the information is valid and once he does… Osborn will get what he deserves.”

“Until then, we shouldn’t treat Peter like a prisoner. He doesn’t deserve it after everything that has happened to him,” Steve took over. “We all agree that we want Peter to be a kid, but how can he if he we deny it?”

Tony breathed deeply, lips rolled in as he thought. Then he sighed again, softly deflating like the tension from his confrontation with Peter lifted off his shoulders. Yet, it left him with melancholy rather than a sense of relief. He realized he lost this little battle with his friends.

“Fine. I will, but at least let me put Maria to bed,” Tony said to his friends as he directed the pram back to the elevator. “By that time, both of us might have cooler heads.”

“Smart,” Rhodes said, joining him. “You’re learning.”

Tony gave him the eye, but said nothing as he pushed the pram into the elevator and ordered FRIDAY to take him to his penthouse suite.

Rhodes joined him, hoping that the next conversation with Peter would be better.

* * *

“Kid? You home?”

Tony knocked and rang the bell. No response. Rhodes stood back, looking at the door with a bland expression. Steve stood beside Tony, tagging along to make sure the conversation didn’t go ballistic. Which was why Tony demanded that he tagged along as well.

Which was also why he was holding the baby monitor while Tony rapt at the door to get the kid to open.

“Come on, kid,” Tony called out. “Open the door. I want to talk to you. I have Rhodey and Cap with me too. Your back-up, if you will.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Tony for a moment, before he took over the knocking. “Hey, Peter? It’s Steve,” he said, a lot softer than Tony’s brusque calls. “Would you please open the door? We want to talk to you.”

Still nothing. Not even footsteps.

Steve turned to Tony. “Is May home?”

Tony shook his head. “Nah… I think she joined Pepper in dropping off the parents. Not quite sure,” he said. “What? I don’t ask for a day-by-day schedule.”

Steve rolled his eyes and knocked again. “Peter?”

Rhodes sighed in the background, knowing already what the other two refused to acknowledge. “You know he’s not home, right?”

“Of course he’s home,” Tony barked back. “I sent him there, remember?”

“I remember you telling him to go home,” Rhodes replied. “But, I don’t hear a sound coming from the apartment, which normally means no one is home.”

Tony and Steve shared a concerned look.

“Do you know the—” Steve started to ask, but Tony was on it.

He inputted the access code and door unlocked. He shoved it aside, storming into the apartment uninvited. Steve followed and Rhodes strolled in afterwards. The apartment looked better than Rhodes last remember. A lot more pictures and trinkets that certainly made it look more like a home than a hotel room.

Tony rushed down the corridor and checked into the room. He came out seconds later. “He’s not here!”

Already, he pulled out his tablet. “FRIDAY? Do you have a location on Peter?”

_“I’m sorry, boss. Peter is not in the parameter of the compound_.”

All three of them gaped at the tablet. Tony choked back a scoff. “Scan again.”

“ _Scan completed. No sign of Peter Parker, boss. Would you like me to—_ ”

“Get KAREN for me,” Tony ordered and he waited for a second. “KAREN? Where is Peter?”

FRIDAY’s accent was replaced with a genteel tone, soft and warm. _“Peter is unavailable._ ”

Tony’s brows furrowed deep enough to make a heavy crevice between his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

_“It means I don’t have access to Peter._ ”

“Trace his phone.”

A moment. “ _Phone traced to this exact point._ ”

A screen shot up and they all peered at it. “That’s here in the apartment,” Steve noted and he looked around, even glancing up at the ceiling. “But… he’s not here.”

Tony tensed up, frazzled. “Son of a bitch,” he angrily muttered. “The kid fucking ran away.”

And Tony went off on another rant, listing out all the things he would revoke from Peter once they drag his ass back home. It came to lab and TV privileges to access to the recreation room, including the theater and indoor pool, and he won’t be seeing his motorcycle for the longest time for that matter.

Tony took out his phone and dialed, waiting. He spot quickly, demanding question after question before he abruptly hung up on the person. “He’s not with Ned,” he told them. “Ned said Peter cancelled because of me. So… there’s that.”

“What about his other friend?” Rhodes asked him, trying to remember her name. “Mary Jane or something?”

“MJ?” Tony corrected without pause. “Maybe. I’ll check. He did want to show off that goddamn motorcycle to her.” Tony dialed a new number and waited for her to answer.

No answer. Tony hung up, frustrated. “If he took that damn bike out…” he harshly grounded his teeth together as he had FRIDAY break every privacy law to help him locate Peter, “I told you not to build a fucking motorcycle, Cap! He’s going to get himself killed.”

Steve wasn’t even listening to him. Rhodes noted that Captain America hadn’t even flickered a glance to Tony as he stormed in his frustration at Peter’s disappearing act. Steve titled his head, arms still folded, relaxed.

And then, he turned, looking back to Tony with a calm expression. “Tony? Do you remember where Peter lives?” he asked. “Where his home is?”

Tony stopped his pacing and dared, dumbstruck by the absurdity of Steve’s question. “He fucking lives here!” he shouted. “This is his home!”

From Steve’s shaking head, Rhodes got a clearer picture of what Steve meant. “That’s not what he’s asking.”

“What?” Tony shot his friend a befuddled look.

“Peter told me he was going home,” Steve said to clarify his earlier question. “I’m beginning to think he wasn’t talking about the apartment.”

A dawning realization hit Tony, melting away the anger that masked his face. “Son of a bitch…”

 


	27. Steve Rogers III

“No one is here.”

“We understand that,” Tony said for the third time since they arrived outside a Queen’s apartment complex.

It wasn’t exactly a picturesque neighborhood. A bit on the grittier side. Nearby bodegas each had their group loitering outside, laughing and blasting music a bit too loud. Children were seen waddling on the sidewalks, not too far from their mothers while the streets were stuffed with old cars, dent up and duck-taped together. Still, it was homely enough that Steve didn’t feel threatened or even gawked at as he walked into the complex with old ac units still hanging out windows despite the colder temperatures.

The landlord or building super led them out of the elevator and down the corridor. “No one came,” he continued to say to Tony. He was smaller than Tony, bald and a bit round in the belly area. His dark skin glittered under the passing lights. He had a ring of keys. Too many that Steve wondered how he could remember which key went to which apartment.

The landlord kept going. “I know. Cops took apartment. No access.”

Steve could feel Tony’s frustration with the landlord. “Yeah, we know that the government seized the apartment and all the belongings. We know,” he said, annoyed. “We only want to check something out.”

The landlord’s eyes squinted at him. “All gone. Everything.”

“ _I know_ ,” Tony said, exasperated and turned to Steve. “You give it a go, Rogers.”

Steve walked beside the landlord. “Sir? We appreciate that you are letting us into the apartment and we hope we don’t take too much of your time, but this is a delicate matter,” he explained, speaking slowly and a lot calmer than Tony. “We can’t discuss it, but we do need to check out the apartment. If only for a second.”

The landlord looked blankly at Steve. “No one came. I know. I have only keys now.”

Steve sighed, shrugging to Tony. Nothing they said would help the landlord understand what they were expecting to find without revealing that Peter may have snuck into the apartment. No need to alert the public that Peter is out and about on his own.

The landlord got to the door and, magically, produced a single key out of the entire chain. It fit into the lock and in one twist, the door opened. “No one been… light is on?”

Tony stopped the landlord from walking further into the apartment. “That’s okay,” he said, gently pulling the landlord out of the way. “We’ll take it from here.”

Steve watched Tony slip the man what appeared to be a few hundreds into his hand. Tony then patted the guy’s back as he pushed him down the corridor, away from the door.

The landlord’s eyes enlarged at the sight of the money in his hand. He understood and quietly walked away to let them be.

Tony went through the door first and Steve followed, quietly closing the door and locking to ensure no one bothered them. The apartment was bare. Nothing was left as the government raided and removed everything that was or wasn’t nailed to the floor. There were a few scoff marks on the floors and walls, signs that life once prevailed here. In either happier times or in bad times.

Tony hurried into the apartment, not even acknowledging the emptiness of the apartment. He went around the wall, passing what Steve assumed was the kitchen. Titled floors, broken cabinets, but stove and refrigerator gone.

Eventually, Tony heed to a halt right at the entrance of an open space ahead. “Jesus Christ…”

Steve picked up his pace and arrived right behind Tony, looking over his head to see the open room was not as empty at the rest of the house. Sitting on the floor, back against a wall, was Peter.

Peter didn’t show any surprise at their arrival. Only a mere glance. “You found me,” he said dropping his head back and releasing a tired sigh. “Go ahead… say it.”

Steve looked on with kindness. He had no intention to scold the boy. “There’s nothing—”

“What were you thinking?” Tony reproached, stepping in what must have been the living room. “Running off like that? It was stupid.”

Peter didn’t say a word, but Steve noticed that one of the veins in his neck bulged a bit. Obviously, Peter was not enjoying the sudden, scathing scold from Stark.

Tony vented away, his visages of fear throttling his voice as he kept going at the kid. “You were supposed to go home.”

“I did go home!" Peter yelled. "I grew up in this apartment. I built my first rocket in that kitchen! I recited my first lines of a play in this living room." The kid kept jabbing his finger in each direction of the apartment before he shouted, "This is my home!"

“You're home is at the compound. The one where you _currently_ reside. Not this place!” Tony blazed as he angrily flung his hand around the cozy apartment. “Jesus—seriously? You had me worried! Cap worried! Even Happy was breathless on the phone when I told him,” he ranted on. “Do you have any _idea_ the stress you gave us with that disappearing act?”

Peter shrugged indifferently. “Probably the same amount of stress I had being holed up there against my will.”

Tony’s mouth thinned at the sarcastic remark. “Nice, kid,” he grumbled. “Way to show your remorse.”

Peter narrowed his eyes, glaring up at Tony. “Says the apathetic billionaire who doesn’t listen to anyone else because he knows best!”

“I know a lot more than a sixteen year old, that’s for damn sure!”

Steve pulled Tony back from Peter and leaned into his ear. “Remember what we talked about?” he whispered. “Understanding… patience…”

“Screw that,” Tony bitterly muttered. “He wrung my nerves for—”

Steve pinched his grip into Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll take it from here then,” he decided, walking passed Tony to the kid. “Hey, Peter? Can I sit with you?”

A long pause followed before Peter nodded his permission. Steve thanked him and slowly lowered himself right next to the kid. The kid had grown since the past year, but Steve enhanced body still made him appear daunting over the kid. Not wanting to intimidate Peter, Steve drew his knees up and draped his arms over them. He calmly waited, letting Peter get used to his presence before giving the speech.

Tony, meanwhile, stood in front of them, impatient.

Steve shot him a warning look to not say another word before he turned his full attention to Peter. “We’re not mad at you,” he began.

Peter’s brow flipped up in a doubtful manner in Tony’s direction. “Really?”

“Tony?” Steve flickered a glance in Stark’s direction. “Oh, he’s not mad.”

When Peter scrunched his eyes, unconvinced of his words, Steve added his assurance. “It’s true,” he glanced to Tony. “Right, Stark?”

“Nope," Tony huffed his response in clipped tones. "Kid’s right. I’m pissed.”

Steve threw an exasperated look to Tony. He should have known Tony would be unhelpful. “Then take a walk and cool off,” Steve suggested. “Give us a few minutes.”

Tony rolled eyes, but obliged to Steve’s whims. He rotated and walked out of the living room, giving Steve time alone with Peter. “So…”

Peter rolled in his lips. “So…” he repeated, but not in a mocking manner.

"You really are from Queens, huh?"

Peter's eye light up in remembrance of their first encounter. "Yeah, I am."

It fell silent again. He sat right beside Peter, neither saying a word to one another. Too lost in their own thoughts or anxieties to say anything. 

It took a brief moment, but Steve got the courage to speak again. “I get it,” he said to Peter. “Being stuck in one place, unable to be free to do what you want, it’s excruciating.

“But you must realize running off like that,” Steve continued on, “probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. All things considered.”

He didn’t need to remind Peter of Tony’s near-death experience. It was still on everyone’s minds and considering that Tony was about and walking and yelling, it was short to a miracle.

Peter inhaled, but it sounded more like a harsh snuffle. “I wanted out.”

“I know.”

“You guys wouldn’t let me go.”

“We’re sorry.”

Peter went quiet, head hanging in deep reminisce. His face scrunched in resentment. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “What’s going on?”

If only he could confess it all. Not only did he swear to May Parker that he won’t tell Peter about the investigation, he wasn’t the right person to explain it to him. That responsibility belong to May alone.

“I wish I can say,” Steve said.

The kid sighed. “But, let me guess,” Peter bitterly commented, “you can’t.”

He pushed himself off the floor, pacing in quick strides as the muscles in his face set. “No one tells me anything anymore,” he started. “It’s all ‘Avengers’ business’, or ‘it has nothing to do with you’ or it’s ‘focus on being a kid’.”

Steve rose to his feet as well. “I get it,” he said. “It’s not easy to do nothing when people you care about are in danger.”

“It’s not only that!” Peter half-shouted. “I…

Footsteps cut Peter off as the boy turned to find Tony re-enter the living room. Nothing changed. His eyes were small and narrowed. His mouth a recalcitrant scowl as he stared down at Peter.

Steve moved across the room to Tony. “I thought you went for a walk?”

“I did. Now, I’m back.” Tony crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “So, kid? Lay on the excuses. I can’t wait to hear them.”

Peter indignantly rolled his eyes. "Why bother? You're not going to listen to me anyway," he grumbled at Tony. "Like you always do."

"Oh don't you dare put that one me," Tony jabbed a finger at the boy. "I always listen. How else would I know when you’re lying?"

Peter bristled at the underhand insult. "You only listen to what you wanna hear!"

Steve jumped in between the two of them, hands stretched out to stop them from gaining any ground. "Let's calm down," he ordered, looking at them both. "Do you want the neighbors to overhear?"

Peter recoiled from Steve and stomped away, heading to the window. Steve diverted back to the kid. "Wait—Peter!" he cried, hand outstretched to stop him from leaving. 

Peter didn't leave. He stopped at the window, but made no motion to open it. He crossed his arms as well, stubbornly refusing to look at him or Tony. Steve took that moment to address Tony. "Don't raise your voice," he said. "Let me do the talking."

"Oh, sure, because you know how to handle a sixteen year old," Tony remarked. “This isn’t a PSA situation.”

"Tony—"

"You see!” Peter interrupted, shooting a hand in Tony’s direction. “He thinks he knows best.”

“Don’t start—”

“More life experiences make me know what’s best,” Tony retorted over Steve’s shoulder.

Steve pushed Tony back. “Stop—”

“And my life experiences don’t?” Peter returned with the same fire. “I’ve had my fair share of—”

“You’re still a child!” Tony shouted. “You haven’t even—”

“Stop saying that! Stop saying I’m a kid!”

“You _are_ a kid! That’s fact!”

“I—”

Steve could no longer take the frivolous bickering between the two of them. He found it annoyingly outrageous that these two, similar in ways that would make strangers think twice if they were blood-related, kept up a fight that only circled. There would be no winners or losers. But, neither of them noticed.

So, Steve had to force it upon them. He planted himself firmly between the two. “Everyone!” he bellowed over their words. “ _Be quiet!_ ”

He shoved them away from each other, but kept a grip on Peter’s forearm to ensure he would not sprint off. Tony backtracked, stumbling a little from the force of the shove, but he kept upright.

Tony swung his glasses off. “What the hell, Rogers?”

“Stop it,” Steve commanded to Tony and Peter. “Both of you.”

“But he—” Peter began, but Steve shook the kid’s arm.

“No,” Steve said. “No more fighting. No more yelling. We are civilized people in a civilized world.” He glanced at the both of them. “At least try to have a diplomatic discussion without resulting into a shouting match. Is that fair?”

Tony rolled his eyes, scoffing as if Steve was the ridiculous one in the group. Peter reacted differently. He looked ashamed by his behavior, dropping his head and looking away with tinged cheeks. He mumbled an apology, but Steve didn’t care for an apology. He only wanted to talk.

Steve was happy to get them to a simmer. “Let’s go back to talking,” he decided. “Peter—we aren’t trying to dismiss you.”

Peter crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I get it. It’s not fun being kept up in one place for a very long time,” Steve related to the kid. “We didn’t mean to make you feel ‘trapped’. We are trying to protect you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Tony confounded, aghast the kid even dared to question their reasons. “Look out the window, kid,” He pointed to the window where one could see parts of the Manhattan skyline. “It’s dangerous out there.”

“What’s so dangerous about seeing a movie with a friend?” Peter challenged.

“Do I _really_ need to remind you that you were kidnapped outside your friend’s house?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Seeing a movie with your friend is not dangerous, Peter,” Steve interrupted to prevent another argument between the two. “With the kidnappings and Tony getting shot, we’ve been a little cautious in letting anyone leave on their own.”

“But more so with me,” Peter pointed out.

Steve nodded. “Yes, but that’s because you’re a—no, Peter, don’t argue— _you are a kid_. No matter how strong or durable you are,” he said as Peter groaned at the constant excuse given to him, “you’re still a kid. That’s why we are protective of you.”

“I get that, but Ross is in custody,” Peter said. “What can he do to me?”

Steve and Tony shared a grave look. It wasn’t former Secretary Ross they were concerned about. There was Osborn. There was Deadpool. There could even be more assassins or mercenaries after Peter, but be unaware of at the current moment.

Peter noted their somber silence and took a breath. “Is it Deadpool?” he questioned. There was a pure look of fear in Peter’s eyes. The kid looked from Steve to Tony. “It’s him, isn’t? What does he want?”

Tony groaned, fingers kneading his forehead at the difficulty of where the conversation turned to. He sighed heavily, moving again to release the stress from his jumbled nerves.

Steve stayed put, left to answer Peter’s inquires. “Don’t worry about Deadpool,” he said to the boy. “He’s not your concern.”

“If he’s after me…”

“He’s not after you.”

“Then why did he shoot Tony?”

“He didn’t shoot me,” Tony answered to Peter’s concern. “Deadpool has nothing to do with my—wait!”

Tony stopped. His eyes laser focused on Peter. “How do you know about Deadpool’s involvement with my assassination attempt?”

Steve cocked up his eyebrows, suddenly curious too. He darted a look to Peter, who squirmed underneath their inquisitive gazes. Peter wrapped his arms around his torso. He draw his chin down, eyes avoiding their gazes.

Tony took a single step toward Peter. “Kid… you better start talking.”

“I guessed,” Peter replied.

It was a lie. Steve knew it. So did Tony. “Son of a bitch,” Tony uttered in dawning realization. “You’ve been eavesdropping.”

Peter backed away, but his eyes never once raised up from the floor.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Tony continued on and he was right. The meeting room they all went to discuss the investigation was sound proof. Whatever they said could not be heard outside the walls. “That room is sound-proof. You can’t hear a word we say in there unless… son of a bitch.”

The kid looked up. Tony shook his head. A little, impish smile appeared as he figured out Peter’s set-up. Tony brushed a hand down his jawline. “That little _princess_... she’s the one who helped you, right?” Tony directed it to Peter, but didn’t give time for Peter to confirm it. “Yeah. I bet it was her. So, you had her set up a listening device inside? That’s smart, kid.”

Tony casually crossed his arms. “Where? On the desk? Chair? Inside the coffee kettle?”

Peter scrunched his mouth. “She tucked it into your monitor,” he answered. “The one you wore the first two days.”

Tony sighed and shook his head again. “Of course she did,” he muttered. “Right. Going to need to destroy that.” He uncrossed his arms, walking back to where Steve stood. “You wanna take this one?”

Natural of Tony to throw him the hard task of scolding Peter for his invasiveness on Avengers’ business. Tony never liked being seen as the “bad guy”. He shoved the burden onto Steve, making him be the “bad guy”.

Steve took a moment to think of his words carefully. As Tony pointed out earlier, he doesn’t have kids and wouldn’t know how to handle him. But, he was going to have to try.

“Son—I mean, Peter,” Steve quickly corrected after remembering Peter’s last reaction to it. “Eavesdropping on private matters is unacceptable. Especially on top secret matters regarding Avengers’ issues.”

“You mean issues about me?” Peter jabbed a finger at his own chest. “I heard Tony talking to the colonel about Deadpool’s involvement with the assassination and how you guys fear that he may come after me next and…”

“He won’t come after you.”

“You don’t know that!” Peter shouted, his voice cracked as it rose to a frantic crescendo. “He kidnapped me once before! He may try again!”

Hysteria peaked in his tone. The old fear buried Peter, the boy reminiscing of the traumatic past. Tears glossed his strained eyes as he nibbled on the tips of his fingernails.

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. It was a lot harder to hide the truth from Peter than he expected. Especially when the kid was in full panic. Perhaps, they should tell him the truth. Something to keep the boy from breaking down.

“Tony?” Steve called to Stark. “Maybe we should—”

“Don’t even suggest it,” Tony snapped at him. “Absolutely not!”

“It’ll help explain—”

“Nope,” Tony shook his head as he took one long stride to stand right in Steve’s face. “We already discussed this. He’s not to be involved.”

“Too late for that,” Peter chimed in to which earned him a growl from Tony.

“What did your aunt say about eavesdropping, kid?”

Peter walked up to them, ignoring Tony. “It’s true though, isn’t it?” he said. “What you guys are investigating. It’s about me. Or something with me. Something about me, Deadpool, Tombstone and… and Ross.”

“Kid—” Tony interjected, but Peter talked over him.

“Don’t lie to me. Please don’t lie to me anymore,” Peter begged, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes. “Just tell me what’s going on?”

Steve helplessly stared into Peter’s eyes. He understood Peter’s irritation and desperation. To be kept in the dark, to hear rumors around him, and to be watched on a constant basis limits ones freedom to the point of extinction. Peter wanted the truth. Some kind of truth to help him understand the controversy that surrounded him and made his choices.

“All right,” Steve decided. “I’ll tell you.”

Tony shot a dangerous look at him. “Rogers—”

“He deserves to know,” Steve argued on Peter’s behalf. He turned back to Peter. “We’ve been investigating Ross’s involvement with your kidnapping.”

Tony cursed, abruptly spinning away from Steve as he continued his pacing with astonished disbelief in what Steve committed. Peter blinked. His eyebrows bunched together almost in reservation.

“That doesn’t make sense though,” Peter said. “Why would Deadpool shoot Tony? He was mad at Ross. It doesn’t make—”

“That crazy freak didn’t do anything,” Tony grumbled.

Steve frowned at Tony, but returned to Peter. “Despite what you overheard, Deadpool didn’t have anything to do with Tony’s assassination attempt,” he said. “He… you know? Don’t worry about him. He’s not involved.”

“He kidnapped me.”

They were well aware of that wretched night. “That is true, but he’s not a threat,” Steve conceded. “We made sure of it.”

“But—”

“Forget Deadpool, kid,” Tony cut in. “He’s nobody important.”

Peter pressed his lips together and he looked to Steve for anything, but Steve nodded to Tony’s assessment. No need to get Peter worked up over a mercenary that may or may not harm him. In either case, it won’t happened. Steve wouldn’t let Deadpool come near him.

“Deadpool isn’t a worry, Peter,” Steve assured him. “What you need to know is that we’ve been investigating the kidnapping.”

“And…” Peter peered up at Steve, hoping to garner more information.

“And… that’s it,” Steve concluded, not wishing to divulge the rest of the Avengers’ mission. Peter had enough to understand their reasoning for keeping an eye on him. No need to work him over with thoughts about Osborn and the death of his parents. That was not Steve’s responsibility.

Peter quizzically stared up at him, the curiosity fading to disappointment. “That’s it?”

“There’s nothing else to say.”

Peter didn’t look convinced. “There has to be more.”

“He already told you more than he should, kid,” Tony said. “Hell—he wasn’t even supposed to tell you anything.”

“Why not?” Peter asked with a pout. “Why is it a secret at all? I was there for the kidnapping.”

“You weren’t told because you’re a kid.”

Peter once again prickled at what he viewed as a snub. Fury was upon him, ready to cry out his hurt, but Steve cut him off. “Your aunt asked us not to get you involved.”

Peter snapped his attention to Steve. “What?”

“She doesn’t want you to get involved in… this,” Steve gestured between him and Tony. “After the incident with Ross and then the whole kidnapping, she doesn’t want you inducted into that world yet. She wants you to be a kid and I agree.”

Steve approached Peter. He may no longer look like the wiry, bright-eyed boy Steve met a year ago, but Peter Parker was still a boy to someone like Steve. His tragedies and horrors did not equivalent him to an adult, although most adults in the world never had to go through what Peter experienced. So when May Parker requested to keep their investigation under wraps and away from Peter, Steve honored her request. Peter deserved to be a kid, to live his life amongst the innocence as much as possible.

“You know, I never had much of a chance to be a, um, kid,” Steve started as he thought back to his own childhood. “I grew up in the Great Depression. Not much to do then. My father was dead. My mother worked, but it was never enough. I was a sickly kid. Didn’t have much of friends except Bucky. And then, when I turned eighteen, World War II started in Europe and we followed shortly after. And… well, you know how that story played out.”

Peter nodded.

“Poverty, illness and war kept me from childhood,” Steve continued. “A lot of kids from my generation would tell you that they never had childhoods.” He then nudged his head in Tony’s direction. “And Stark? I’m sure you heard bits of his rantings about his own childhood.”

Peter looked passed Steve to Tony. The little crease between his furrowed brows proved to Steve that Peter recalled some comments about Tony’s past. After all, Tony often talked about his horrible childhood due to his father’s cold, dismissive demeanor toward him.

“Then there’s Nat,” Steve said to draw Peter back to him. “I doubt she told you much about her background. She grew up in a place called the Red Room.”

He watched Peter titled his head, curiosity flowing back into his eyes. “What’s the Red Room?”

“It’s where the Soviet Union trained girls at a young age to become assassins,” Steve explained. “They are effectively brainwashed into being agents. They receive grueling training to the point that, upon graduation, they killed one of their own peers.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open as he gasped. “What?”

Steve nodded. “Nat’s childhood was spent learning how to fight, torture and kill,” he said as Peter sucked in a breath of chilled horror. He looked aghast. “What happened to her there still haunts her today. She doesn’t like to talk about it and probably will never tell anyone what really happened to her while she grew up in such conditions.”

“Does it still exist?”

“What? The Red Room?” Steve asked, to which Peter nodded. He had to think. “I’m not sure. Again, Nat doesn’t talk about it. Don’t know if it still exists or not.”

Peter’s face went rigid, his mouth a thin line of displeasure. He was not happy, but that was what Steve wanted him to understand. “Look, Peter,” he said, taking the boy’s shoulder. “What I want you to understand is that… we all never got the chance to be a kid. I didn’t. Tony didn’t. Nat didn’t. Even Clint, though, he’s never talked much about his background either. I think he mentioned running away from home when he was young. Stark? Do you remember—”

“What good, old Cap is trying to say is kid,” Tony took over for lecture, stepping up next to Steve, but mostly in front of Peter to get the kid’s undivided attention, “is that we kept it a secret from you because we want you to _be a kid_. None of us ever got the chance to enjoy things like being on an academic team or going to the movies with friends on a Friday night. Or even be around kids our own age without having to pick a fight. Hell—I had no friends, which was why I built Dum-E and U.”

“Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Peter,” Steve slid back into the conversation he started. “Be young. Go fishing or head to Coney Island. Have fun with friends.”

“Do stupid shit that you can get away with as a kid,” Tony added on, which Steve immediately dissent.

“Don’t listen to Tony,” Steve told Peter. “All we tried to do was make sure you got the chance to have that the rest of us couldn’t. Be a teenager. Stress over homework.”

“Or take a girl out on a date,” Tony hinted.

“Be on a team with kids your own age.”

“Binge on Netflix and crap.”

“The point we are making is that you deserve to have a relatively normal life,” Steve ended their list and he took a deep breath as he studied Peter’s face. “You’re going to be a good hero, Peter. I can tell already. Hell, you’ll be the best one. Until then, be a kid. Enjoy it. For all of us.”

Peter didn’t say a word. He walked back and Steve’s hand slid off the boy’s shoulders. It was tense, watching Peter move further and further away from them in reflected silence. He and Tony shared a fearful look and Steve prayed that the kid accepted their reasoning. Not that it wasn’t the truth. They truly wanted him to be a kid and not an Avenger quite yet. Still, Peter’s noted silence put them a little on edge as to whether Peter accepted that explanation for the secrecy and over-protectiveness.

After a long moment, Peter turned back to them. “If that’s true,” he said making Steve’s heart plummet for a split second, “then why can’t I go out with my friends? Why can’t I do normal ‘kid things’ without having a bodyguard clipping my heel?”

“That’s our fault,” Steve answered before Tony could. “Ever since you got kidnapped by Bullseye and then Deadpool, along with the whole situation regarding Ross… we worried. We thought someone else may try to hurt you and… anyway, we may have gone a bit overboard.”

“You think?” Peter remarked.

“Look, kid, you weren’t there when you suddenly disappeared on us,” Tony interjected. “It was a frenzy! I never even seen Happy that out of breath as he ran around in frantic. So, yeah, we put up the necessary guard and protocols to keep you safe once we got you back. I have no regrets on that. It kept you safe.”

“But—” Steve cut in, holding his hand up to stop Tony from interrupting him. “Maybe we can roll back on some of the restrictions? Let him go out with his friends. Or have a weekend out into the city? I don’t know. Something like that.”

Peter stood straighter. His eyes bounced from Steve to Tony. “Really?” he asked, hopeful. “A-Are you serious?”

“Sure,” Steve answered with a shrug. “I don’t see why we can’t let you go out with friends for a night by yourself. What about you, Stark?”

Tony looked a little uneasy about the prospect. The assassination was still in the forefront of everyone’s mind and Steve knew Tony didn’t like the idea at all. It left Peter vulnerable to Osborn, but not if they do it right. Steve trusted Peter to make good choices and know when to act and when to call for back-up. He had faith in the kid. He needed Stark to have that same faith as well.

Tony heaved a sigh and swung his glasses back off his face. “I have a million reasons, but I’ll make an exception for you, short stuff.”

Peter stayed diffident, contemplating if they were telling him the truth. “You’re being serious?” he asked for clarification, his voice tinged with excited anticipation. “You… you’re really going to… I can go out on my own? Like without you or Nat or Happy?”

“Obviously there are a few conditions,” Tony said, wanting to make it clear it wasn’t a free-for-all for the kid. He pocketed his sunglasses. “Why? Do you have an idea in mind already, kid?”

Peter thought. “Actually, I do.”

“Name it.”

Peter looked between Tony and Steve. “Well, before I ask, I need a favor first.”

Tony arched a brow, flickering a glance to Steve in concern. “Oookay,” he said, tentatively. “What favor? It’s not something I’m going to regret later, right?”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “It’s um… it’s quite embarrassingly really.”

“Just spit it out then,” Tony advised, now curious as to what the kid wanted. Even Steve waited with anticipation.

Peter took a deep breath. “Can you teach me how to dance?”


	28. Harry Osborn II

Harry checked himself in the mirror. He looked okay. Still not exactly the six-foot figure he wanted and his tux drooped a little off his body, but not noticeable. He stared right back at the pale reflection before giving himself a smirk. He looked dashing. James Bond-esque. 

He walked at out of his room, checking his body odor as he came down to the main floor of the penthouse. His father was going to let him borrow the car. For the first time, Harry would be able to drive around New York and show it off to Ned and Michelle. Maybe even give them a ride around the city. He pictured himself behind the wheel. Michelle sat up front, window down and her hair blowing behind her as she smiles.

Harry sighed, lingering on the dream that he didn't hear the ruckus his father made until it was far too late. 

Norman Osborn fumed near the electric fireplace. He had a glass of scotch in his hand as he paced, grumbling along. "This cannot be happening," Norman uttered into his bluetooth headset. He was talking to someone. Harry had to be careful to be unseen. "I paid a lot of good money for the job and you fucked up! I don't give a damn! You were supposed to get it done the first time around and now I have—" 

His father's voice ceased and Harry turned to see his father staring directly at him. Fucking hell...

“I have to go," Norman hissed. "This isn't over.”

He hung-up on whatever employee fucked up and came over to him. He judged Harry's attire, his brows wrangled in bemusement. Harry swallowed, checking his suit and tie to ensure it matched and nothing was exposed. It looked all right. The tie's knot was well done from all the practices he did. It was a basic knot. Nothing wrong with it.

After a tense minute, his father spoke. "Why you dressed like that?"

“Er... I'm going to a dance," Harry reminded his father. "I told you about it. The Winter Formal? It's tonight.”

“I didn't think you were going.”

"Why?" Harry asked for the car. He had their butler take his suit to the cleaners. Why would his father not think he was going?

His father stared down at him. "Because that girl turned you down," he commented rather bluntly. No sympathy whatsoever. Very typical of his father. "Didn't imagine you want to show up alone."

Harry bristled from his father's jab at his vanity. "I'm not going alone. I'm going with friends," he defended himself. "And Michelle didn't turn me down. She said she found it misogynist that a girl had to be asked to show up to a dance. So, she wants to go alone."

Norman was silent for a second before he threw back his head and let out a cruel laugh. "That's certainly a creative way to say 'no'," he remarked with that familiar twisted smile. "Oh, son, so naive."

Harry's face tightened, scrunched into bitter resentment. "What? There's nothing weird about it," he argued. "Michelle's a feminist, Dad. It's normal for her to protest things like... a dance. Part of the whole MeToo Movement."

His dad's smirk remained, clearly not buying his son's excuse. "If a girl likes you, son," he said. "She wouldn't give you an excuse."

“That's not it!”

His father brushed him aside, walking away with that amused chuckle. "Whatever you say," he said. "I have more important things to worry about than you being rejected by a girl."

Harry called to his father's back. "I still have the car, right?"

Norman stopped and twirled on his heel. "What?"

“The car?" Harry said. "I have it for tonight.”

“No," Norman said. "I have work.”

“But... you said—”

“What does it matter?" Norman snapped. "You don't have a date to impress? And I doubt the girl you masturbate to will fall head over heels for you in a car. So... yeah. You're not getting the car. Take the train. Or cab. I don't care! I'm trying to keep my company afloat, which I know you don't give a damn. But with Stark's miraculous recovery, everything is in disarray! And Oscorp is being hit! So—no! You're not getting the damn car!”

And like that his father disappeared upstairs to let Harry strew over his father's insults against him. He fingers curled into fists, eager to lash out at something. He turned and punched the lame flowerpot a neighbor gifted to them to welcome them to the complex. The flowerpot tipped and smashed, the ceramic shattering in jagged pieces. The soil fell in a clump and the flowers lost a few petals from its stem before it laid limp on the wooden floor. 

Anger pulsed on in his blood, throbbing right in the center of his forehead. Damn his father! He wanted to rip out a scream, but his lungs were to weak to get louder than a mere shout that his father would never hear. He kicked the wall he passed to pick up his coat. Without a good-bye, Harry left, hoping the long subway ride to Midtown would cool off his anger to enjoy the dance. 

* * *

 

“Dude! Where have you been? I thought you were coming at eight?”

It was well past eight. Almost nine. Harry only shrugged as he joined Ned at the back table, away from the dance floor. He slid into the chair, slouched as he looked on at the streamers, balloons and the glittering tablecloths to replicate snow. It was all childish, nothing like his father's fancy parties he sometimes attended when forced to make Norman look like a doting father. 

Ned tapped him on his arm. "Hey? Everything okay?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah... just had to take the damn subway here," he said. "My dad promised me the car, but changed his mind. Like always. At the last minute."

Ned offered a sympathetic gaze. "That sucks dude," he said. "At least you made it though."

True, but the long ride into Queens didn't lessen Harry's mood. He had no urge to go out and dance or drink punch or even mingle with the other students. He rather go out to a deserted industrial area and loiter there than in the gym. 

“I'll get you some punch," Ned said loud in his ear to compensate the DJ's blaring music. "That'll make you feel better.”

"Why? Does it have alcohol?" Harry asked. 

Ned paused. "Er... no, but it tastes all right," he said. "I don't know. You look like you could use something."

He couldn't agree with Ned anymore, but punch wasn't going to satisfy it. "I'm good," he said. "I'll get some later. Right now... I just want to, um, I want to..."

His eyes caught sight of movement on the fringes of the dance floor. He turned and his heart fell. Decked in pale blue fabric, flower-accented bodice and a flowing gown that touched her ankles to reveal her black flats, Michelle Jones looked like the girl of his dreams. She got her hair somewhat straightened, her unruly curls made waves, but they looked stunning around her smooth face. She wore no make-up, showing up all the other girls with her natural, perfect features. 

When Michelle saw him, she smiled. Cheeks blossoming up as she gracefully walked to their table. "Hey losers," she said, taking a chair to sit on the other side of Ned. "Didn't think you would come to this lame thing."

“You're here," Ned returned, incredulous. "Why wouldn't we be?”

“I don't want to be here," Michelle said. "But it's here or home where my parents are watching basketball. So... figured this is better than being at home.”

Harry watched her brush her hair behind her shoulder, unknowing or uncaring that one simple gesture made his heart flutter. Her very presence banished his sour mood, forgetting his father's harsh words. He melted in his seat. His eyes never wandering from her pursed lips. Simply overcome by her beauty.

Michelle noticed for she narrowed her at him. "Why are you staring?" she questioned. "Never seen a girl in a dress before?"

Harry sat up in his seat, trying to act nonchalant. "Of course I have," he said with a playful grin. "But I've never seen a princess before... until now."

Ned low whistled, head snapping back in forth from him to Michelle like he expected a return spitfire or a compliment. Michelle was less impressed. "Really?" she said, dropping her chin in her palm. She stared down at him. "Aren't I a princess every day, though?"

Harry was taken aback. "W-What?"

"You call me princess every day.”

Harry understood what she was saying. "Oh... what I mean was, um, what I was trying to say is that you're, um... you look beautiful," he spluttered out. "The dress and everything..."

Harry wanted nothing more than to punch himself in the face. What was he thinking? He shouldn't have—sweet Jesus! He fucked up. Michelle probably thinks of him as a drooling idiot now.

Luckily, Michelle didn't tease him on his babbling foolishness. She only rocked her head. "Yeah... okay," she said. "Thanks."

Harry relaxed, almost wishing Ned did get him that cup of punch, if only to hide behind it. Michelle turned to the dance floor, eyes dancing along to the kids on the dance floor. "Dances are lame. Cliche," she muttered and then nudged her head to the dance floor. "And no one knows how to even dance. It's all... blah."

Harry perked up. He was a good enough dancer. Had to be to participate in the rich people's club. This may be his chance to redeem himself and show off his moves. And, to be close to Michelle. 

He scooted his chair closer, invading Ned's personal space for a bit. "You know, dances don't have to be that bad," he said to Michelle. "All you need is the right dancing partner." Harry reached his hand across the table to her. "What do you say, Princess? Wanna go dance?"

Harry waited. Palm up, his hand stretched way across the table to her. The more seconds that ticked passed, the more awkward it became. It may be all in his head, the excruciable wait for Michelle to accept. His heart struggled to keep a rhythmic tune. Why wasn't anyone saying anything? Why hadn't Michelle taken his hand yet?

Michelle's eyes fell to his hand and then flickered up. "Mmm... not at the moment," she said. "I want to sit for awhile."

She spoke words to him, but all Harry received was feelings. He looked on at her, passion melting to grief. His hand retreats, fingers curling over the empty palm. He adjusted himself, trying to appear indifferent, but nothing he did shrugged away the belittling feeling of himself crumbling to dust.

If only he could, but he did his best and pulled up a signature smirk to hide his hurt. “All right then,” he said. “Anyway, the song isn’t great to dance to.”

Michelle slowly nodded to his lie. It was a cookie-cutter, pop song that overplayed on the radio. Harry didn’t recognized the song, but he could guess the boy band. Harry raked his hair, some of the gel flaking off in the disruption.

Ned sat plopped in the middle, eyes shifting from him to Michelle. “So… um…” Ned began, trying to fill in the uneasy silence that followed. “What did you guys think of the Spanish final? Tough, huh?”

Michelle looked to Ned with befuddled scrutiny. “I take French, Ned.”

“Right…um, how did that go?” Ned asked instead. Something to change the subject.

Ned’s a good friend, Harry thought. He was happy to have him in his life. His other friends at his old school would have mocked him and teased him relentlessly for the next few weeks. Ned was different. He turned the spotlight away, distracting everyone with trivial questions.

But, Harry couldn’t focus much on what they were talking about. His father’s words returned to him. “ _If a girls likes you, son, she wouldn’t need an excuse_.”

Harry sighed heavily, head falling to the side as he watched Michelle jabber on with Ned. While his father’s voice murmured in the back of his head, Harry clung onto the strand of hope that whispered chances of getting that one dance. That one moment with the girl…

“Have you spoken to Peter?”

Harry refocused. Michelle asked Ned about Peter. They hadn’t seen Peter in a long time. Not since they went to the Avengers compound to hang-out with him. They all lived busy lives and had no time to travel to upstate New York on weekdays. And weekends were filled with family time and piles of homework. They were all in communication with one another, but it wasn’t the same. Especially when Stark was nearly assassinated right alongside his own father at the same tech expo.

Ned shook his head. “Last time I spoke to Peter, he cancelled on me,” he said. “We were supposed to watch the whole Indiana Jones series, but he told me he couldn’t go. Then, weirdly, I got a call from Stark. I mean… how crazy is that?”

Ned look at him and Michelle for confirmation about how odd that a supposedly dead man spoke to him on the phone. It wasn’t that crazy anymore considering the news broke out a night ago of Stark and Captain America roaming the streets of Queens.

Ned continued blabbering. “Yeah, well, it was a hell of a shock for me to be speaking to Iron Man.”

“You know he’s a douche, right?” Harry said after a moment. “He’s not that impressive.”

Michelle glared at him from across the table while Ned’s face deflated. “Well, I mean… I know he’s not exactly a _nice_ person,” Ned said. “But, he’s still cool. I mean, yeah, sure, he’s a bit of a jerk, but it’s not every day Iron Man calls you.”

“What did he call about?” Michelle asked, curious.

“Asked if Peter contacted me,” Ned answered. “He sounded worried so I tried calling Peter, but he didn’t answer. I think they got in a fight.”

“Not surprising,” Harry remarked. “Like I said, Stark’s a douche.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” came a voice from above them, “he might be a douche, but he’s a douche with an iron suit.”

Harry whipped his head up to see Peter Parker standing behind them. Peter smiled at their stunned expressions, almost laughing as Ned jumped from his seat to give his friend a hug.

“Peter! Omigod! You’re here! Like… here, here,” Ned shouted in excitement. “Wait… w-what are you doing here?”

Like any other teenager in the room, Peter was dressed dark slacks and a suit, hair gelled to tame his unruly curls, and a bow tie. Unlike the rest of the teenagers in the room, Peter’s outfit cost as much as their rent. Harry recognized the suit and bow tie as a Tom Ford special. He certainly dressed for the occasion. Or at least, Stark dressed him for the occasion.

Peter clapped Ned’s back, signaling to break from their hug. As Ned pulled back, Peter straightened his suit. “I heard there was a dance tonight,” he said. “Figured I would join in on the fun.”

“Don’t you have to be a student, though?” Harry questioned. It was the first thing that slipped from his mouth.

Peter shrugged. “I guess they made an exception for me.”

Not that it mattered if Peter came or not. Harry didn’t know why he questioned Peter’s appearance anyway. Not that Midtown would ever turn down their Golden Boy. Still, he shouldn’t be irritated by Peter’s arrival. They hardly saw him at all anyway and having him here was good.

So why did he bristle when Peter joined them?

Ned was practically glowing, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hey? Peter? Do you want me to get you a drink?” he asked. “They have punch.”

“Err… sure, Ned,” Peter said. “Thanks.”

Ned sprinted off to fetch the punch. Peter didn’t take his friend’s empty chair. Instead he went around Michelle and pulled out the chair beside her. Harry noticed Michelle’s head turning with Peter, watching him take his seat. Harry noted Peter returned her gaze with a warm and easy grin.

"Hey, I heard about the internship,” he said with a bigger smile. “Congrats!"

Harry stiffened up. "Wait… what internship?” he looked to Michelle for an explanation, but it was Peter who answered.

“MJ got an internship,” Peter said, bearing that proud smile again when he looked back to Michelle. “Shuri told me all about it. She’s excited that you’re joining the team.”

Michelle rolled in her lips as she glanced away from Peter for a split second. Her hands fiddled together. "Oh, yeah, thanks," she said. "Shuri said you were weird about it."

Peter made a face. "What? I wasn't being weird," he argued. "I thought... I just didn't know you guys were that close. It took me by surprise. That's all. I wasn't... it's not weird."

The corners of Michelle's lips curled up into a knowing smirk. "Uh-huh," she replied. 

"It's not weird!"

"What's not weird?" Ned returned and handed Peter his cup of punch. "What did I miss?"

"Michelle is running off to Wakanda," Harry answered, still reeling from the revelation. 

"What?"

"She got an internship,” said Peter.

Ned whipped his whole body to Michelle, a smile stretching from ear to ear. "Omigod! That's so cool!" he said, ecstatic. "What... what are you doing there?"

"I'm working on Global outreach programs," Michelle said. "Assisting in the start-up and that sort of thing."

Ned was still wowed. "That's so cool," he said. "When do you start?"

"After the school year ends," Michelle answered. "Actually, I'm going to Wakanda in five days. Shuri invited me and my folks over so that they can get an idea of what I will be doing. Staying over there for Christmas."

The three friends talked and Harry sat back in his seat, not listening to them at all. Far too lost and stunned by Michelle's surprising news. She was leaving. Off to Wakanda without telling him. He thought the three of them were going to spend Christmas break together and share summer joy in the months off of school. He thought the holidays would be tolerable, even fun. He thought they could go skiing, take them all to his family's cabin up in Vermont. He wanted to show off his yacht, take them sailing around the harbor. He thought he would have all this time.

He was wrong. Michelle was leaving. Off on an adventure that Peter Parker hooked her up with. 

The DJ changed the song and Peter diverted his attention from the group to the dance floor. "Well, I'm happy for you MJ," he said. "You're going to do great." He got up from his seat, pushing in his chair. "You guys wanna go onto the dance floor? Ned?"

Ned nodded, getting up from his seat too. "Yeah, let's bust some moves!"

Peter laughed and then Harry watched his eyes avert to Michelle. "MJ?" he said, holding out his hand to her. "May I have this dance?"

Harry almost snorted. Michelle had no interest in going out to the dance floor. He opened his mouth to repeat Michelle's earlier words to him. "Dances are—”

"Sure."

Harry spluttered to silence as he watched, wide-eyes, as Michelle took Peter's hand. Peter helped her up from her seat. Together, with Michelle still holding Peter's hand, they walked over to the dance floor with Ned tagging along behind him. No one even noticed Harry didn't get up.

Harry sat, abandoned, as his friends left him to go dancing.

He watched from the sidelines. One by one, eyes widened and heads turned as the rest of the student population recognized the famous Midtown student. Whispers overcame the song, as people drew closer to the encircled group of friends, dancing lightly on their feet. Harry watched Michelle dance, casually with her head bopping to the rhythm and her hips sliding from one side to the next. She did a little spin, which got Ned and Peter to applaud. Harry smiled as she danced and swayed to the music. 

The DJ abruptly stopped the song and called out over his microphone. "Now, for all the couples out there,” his voice rang overhead, “this is for you.”

There was a groan of disapproval and a few dancers already marched off the floor in submission before the song even came on. The song clicked and the melody of Ed Sheeran came through the speakers loud and clear.

_I found love for me, Darling just dive right in, and follow my lead_

Harry expected more dancers to come off, particularly his group of friends to return to the table. Only, Michelle didn't leave the floor. Neither did Peter. 

Harry's heart pounded harder, eyes struck on the sight before him. Peter offered his hand again. Michelle let his fingers wrap around hers. Harry watched Peter slide his free hand behind Michelle, resting it against her back. He saw her lip stiffen upon the touch, but then smile as she moved closer to Peter.

_Well I found a girl beautiful and sweet, I never knew you were the someone waiting for me_

The music swayed them, dancing close together. Not smoothly, Harry noted. Michelle winced a few times her foot got stepped on, but through it all, she still smiled. Her heels clicked over the dance floor as they spun around the other dancers. They ignored the cameras following them, the eyes watching them.

_‘Cause we were just kids when we fell in love, not knowing what it was, I will not give you up this time_

Michelle’s lips were close to Peter’s ear, whispering something, sharing secrets to one another. Peter lit up, chuckling before Michelle laughed a little too. They spoke, breaths close together. Harry saw how Michelle’s lips were puckered, parted. She wanted a kiss.

_But darling, just kiss me slow, your heart is all I own, and in your eyes you’re holding mine_

“No,” Harry corrected the song. “Not mine.”

He watched Michelle continue to dance and spin with Peter in her arms, his face in her eyes. The lights twinkled above them, like stars, as Michelle let Peter spin her in delicate circles. Her dress billowed a little, revealing smooth ankles and calves. Michelle’s hands were clutched in Peter’s hands as they held onto each other tight.

_Baby, I’m dancing in the dark with you between my arms, barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song_

Harry felt his throat constrict, restraining the stirring emotions from coming out. A strong ache pulsed in the center of his forehead the longer he watched Michelle dance. Cold flowed through his veins, encasing him in ice. Looking at Michelle, seeing her smile, warmed him a little. But her smiles were not for him. Her laughs were caused by him. And she danced on, her hair swaying to the melody and her blue dress shimmering under the twinkling lights.

_When I saw you in that dress, looking so beautiful, I don’t deserve this, darling_

“You look perfect, tonight,” Harry finished the lyrics as his throat burned with the words.

He became startled when a chair was pulled out next to him and Ned sat down to join him. He handed him a cup. It was filled with punch.

“Here!” Ned gave him the punch. “Figured you might be thirsty.”

Harry took it, but didn’t drink. “Thanks.”

Ned chugged his cup, letting out a satisfying sigh. He looked ahead, observing the couples dancing on the floor. “Look at them,” Ned commented, gesturing to Michelle and Peter.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “What about them?”

“They look good together, don’t you think?”

Harry shrugged, a frown pinching his lips. “Sure. I guess so.”

Ned watched a little longer. “Our two friends… getting together.”

“They aren’t together, Ned,” he said, rather quickly and far harsher than he meant. “They’re just… sharing a dance.”

“A slow dance!”

Harry scoffed. “That means shit,” he said to him. “I’ve slow danced to a lot of girls.”

Ned’s face deflated a little bit. He took quick glances to where Michelle was and back to him. “I don’t know dude,” he said after a moment. “I think it’s more than just a dance.”

Harry hoped it wasn’t. He hoped the dance meant nothing and that Michelle faked those smiles and laughs. He wanted to hear Michelle snap at Peter or push him away. He wanted Michelle to come back to the table, sit next to him and wish she had a better dancing partner.

He wished for so much.

When the song ended and the return the cookie-cutter pop music blared through the speakers, more people came onto the dance floor. Michelle disappeared in the crowd, out of Harry’s sight.

Harry craned his neck to find her. He couldn’t. Not with that hoard of a crowd storming the floor.

“You going to go out there?” Ned asked.

He wanted to. If only to sweep Michelle off her feet. “Yeah,” he said, confidence boasting. “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Cool!” Ned finished his punch and got up as well. “Let’s go find Peter and Michelle.”

Harry only cared to find Michelle. They danced through the crowd, jumping and squeezing between people. Harry scanned the faces, looking for the face of an angel with a halo of curls and a beautiful face. Ned bobbed his head along to the music, not truly caring about the direction they were going.

Harry led the charge, pushing dancers aside as he checked each blue-dressed girl until he found Michelle. Harry was relieved to find her. She was dancing, bouncing to the beat and her arms moving in crazy motions.

He abandoned Ned at once, making a beeline straight to Michelle. “Hey, Princess!” he shouted over the music to her.

Michelle looked up, brushing her hair away from her eyes. “Oh, hey,” she greeted. “You care to join?”

Harry coolly shrugged. “Someone’s gotta show people how to dance.”

Michelle wrinkled her brows in incredulity. “Yeah, okay.”

She wanted proof. He could give her proof. His body became fluid, grooving to the music. Light on his feet, he showed off all the moves he learned from clubbing in California. A few people moved aside for him, watching him as he took over the dance floor. He heard a few whistles and hoots as he let loose.

It boost his confidence. He slid up to Michelle, who looked confused. With a sly smile, he took her hand and pulled her into his dance circle. He twirled her around, hands covering her back. Her skin was smooth and warm. She smelled of lavender, his favorite scent.

Michelle was in his arms, dancing with him. They moved together, in perfect sync and harmony. Like the beat of their hearts. The warmth between them grew more powerful that his breath was taken away. He smiled, leaning in close so that his lips were near Michelle’s ear. It all felt perfect.

So, he took the plunge.

He suddenly spun Michelle, twirling her fast that her hair flew over her face. His hand secured in the center of her back, he dipped her low. Like they do in the movies. Harry smiled and winked.

Michelle did not.

Her fingers pinched his arms. Eyes wide in fright as she wiggled in desperation. “What are you doing?!”

Harry was confused. He thought…

A hand came out of nowhere, helping Michelle back up into a standing position. It jolted Harry to assist, pulling her back up. Once she was back on her feet, Michelle pulled away, fixing her dress and hair.

“Are you okay?”

It was Peter. He came over, checking Michelle as she fixed her appearance.

Michelle brushed her hair behind her ears. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” she said to Peter and Harry. “Just… wasn’t expecting that. At all.”

Harry felt his cheeks burn pink. “Sorry… I thought—”

“Um… I think I had enough dancing,” Michelle said. “I’m going to go get a drink.”

Michelle squeezed through the crowd. Some of the dancers watched her leave and the rest stared at him. Or Peter. Maybe both. Probably just Peter.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. He should follow after Michelle. That’s what he needed to do.

As he moved to go after her, Betty Bryant and her pink dress and curled blonde hair bounced onto the scene, blocking him.

She wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes were bright on Peter. “May I have this dance, Peter?”

Peter looked down at petite Betty, brows furrowing for a minute in puzzlement. “Um... not right now,” he said to Betty, but then turned to Harry. “I’ll check on MJ.”

And Peter was gone, leaving Harry guilt ridden and Betty self-conscious at the rejection. She pretended to not be hurt, moving her feet to act like she was dancing as she moved away from the scene of her rejection.

Harry considered chasing after Michelle, but rather than move forward, he turned. He went the other direction, hurrying off the dance floor and to the only secluded place he thought of.

* * *

Harry paced the men’s bathroom.

No one else was there. Just him and the stalls and urinals. He went over the dance in his head, the way Michelle held him and danced close. Nothing was wrong. She was having fun. They both were. It didn’t make sense for her to panic and leave.

Harry gripped his hair. Michelle looked pissed. She may have said she was fine, but Harry knew that look. She was angry and frustrated. At him. For what reason, Harry didn’t know. If it was because of the dip, he would apologize. He didn’t mean to frighten her. It was a romantic gesture. Any girl knew that!

Yet, Michelle freaked and Peter came running.

Harry stewed over the fact that Peter rushed over. Peter didn’t have to treat him like he was abusing Michelle. He would never do that! Yet, the way he jumped in and pulled her up to her feet made it appear like he was some god-damn superhero. Which, Harry guessed, he was in a way, but what did Michelle need protection from? Harry wasn’t going to let her get hurt. There was no need for Peter to be there.

Hell! Peter wasn’t even supposed to be at the dance in the first place. It was for Midtown students only. _Current_ students. He shouldn’t even be at the dance at all. And what was with the damn bow-tie? This wasn’t a black and white party.

Harry stopped at one of the sinks and breathed. He rolled his eyes up, seeing his pale reflection in the mirror. His hair was no longer neat. It was messed up, disarray from his constant raking of it. He loosened his tie at one point, but he could not remember doing that at all. He looked like a wreck and not the handsome agent he initially believed prior to arriving at the dance.

None of this was going right. The night was ruined the moment his father took away the car keys. If he had the car, he could take Michelle and Ned away from the event. They could have spent their winter formal off on some adventure. The three of them, taking New York by storm.

Michelle would be in the front seat, smiling at him. Laughing with him. Sharing secrets with each other or jokes that meant something only to them. They could have danced in the sand, on the beaches of Manhattan. Coney Island. Hamptons. Somewhere where they would be under the real night sky and not the fake, twinkling lights the adults put up to mimic the space above them.

Nonetheless, it never happened. His father took the car. Michelle didn’t want to dance or was too thirsty. Peter returned. It was all a big mess.

He took another deep breath, recollecting his father’s words.

_If a girl likes you, she wouldn’t give you an excuse_.

Michelle never gave him an excuse. All her reasons were well-founded. She didn’t push him away or reject him. And the whole dipping fiasco was his fault. He should have warned her.

Yet, the whispering talk in the back of his head prodded him. She never said no to Peter. She took his hand. She smiled. Laughed and let him twirl her. Her eyes stayed on him throughout the song. She looked happy. Happier than she was with him.

Harry shook his head. No, he was seeing things. She was only happy because Peter showed. They haven’t seen him in a long time. She was happy to see him. Not happy to be with him. There’s a difference. He knew the difference.

Michelle had smiled at him. Multiple times. They bantered and swapped witty repartee with one another. They have lunch together and decathlon practices and even study together. They messaged every day. Went to movies or watched basketball games, even though Michelle didn’t particularly enjoy them.

They do all sorts of things together. Things she’s never done with Peter. Things she would probably never do with Peter.

Harry’s breathing calmed. He overreacted. There was nothing to get worried about. He needed to pull himself together. Act like the Osborn he was and be a man.

The first thing he must do was apologize to Michelle.

Harry left the bathroom and scanned the gym again for any signs of Michelle. He strolled around, hoping to spot her on the dance floor or maybe at a table. He didn’t find her at all, but he did find Ned, nibbling away on a cookie.

“Hey Ned!” Harry called as he joined his friend.

Ned was startled, but then smiled bright. “Hey! Where have you been?” he asked. “You kind of disappeared from the dance floor.”

“Me and others,” Harry said, remembering how Michelle ran off and Peter followed. “Hey, um, have you seen Michelle anywhere? I can’t find her and I just wanted to speak to her real quick.”

Ned nodded. “Yeah, I saw her walk through those doors over there,” he said, pointing to the two doors off in the corner. “The refreshment stand ran out of water, so she went to go look for a drinking fountain.”

Harry clapped Ned on his shoulder. “Thanks, Ned,” he said. “You’re the best!”

He got back up and headed straight for the doors. He went over his speech in his head, saying the lines over and over again. He would apologize, repeatedly. Ask for forgiveness. Allow her to tease him. Properly ask for a dance with her. Then, dance with less flair for her taste.

He got to the two doors and pushed them open. They granted him entrance to the hallway, but found no one. The drinking fountain was right by the doors, but it was empty. She wasn’t there. He didn’t see Michelle, so he turned down, looking for her as he swept of the hallway. Where could she be?

Rounding the corner, he pulled out his phone, debating on whether to call her and see where she was. As he hoovered his finger over her contact, thinking of what do to. Would she even hear it? Would she even bother to answer? Too many questions. He needed to find her. She probably went for a little walk for a break away from the crowd.

Harry went around the next corner.

He screeched to a halt.


	29. Ned Leeds

Tonight was the best night Ned had in weeks! Maybe even months.

The dance was fun. It was decorated beautifully—like a winter wonderland! Great food. Good music. And he was dressed in the finest apparel he owned. He was finesse at the finest!

The best part of it all was his friends were with him. Peter, Michelle and Harry. All in one room, away from the adults (well, the supervisors of the dance don’t count), goofing off and letting loose. It was a great way to end a stressful week.

Ned sat at their claimed table all by himself. He came off the dance floor, legs tired and his body sweating from grooving to the music. He reclined in his chair, relaxed now that he was no longer standing. The music played on and the chatter continued, but Ned sat peacefully in the shadows of the lights.

Until Harry came marching back to the table. His friend looked frazzled, doomed almost. Ned sat up in his seat as Harry came up. “Hey man,” Ned greeted. “Did you find Michelle?”

Harry walked to his chair and swiped up his jacket. “No.”

Ned blinked, surprised by the clipped response. “Oh… sorry,” he said. “I thought I saw her go out those doors.”

Harry shoved his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. He didn’t say anything.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I have to go.”

Ned stood up. “Go? But… the dance isn’t over yet!” He only got here an hour ago. Why was he leaving?

Harry button up his coat. “Family emergency,” he said. “I have to go.”

“Omigod! Is everything okay?” Ned asked, hurrying after Harry who started to walk off. “Do you need me to do anything? You need me to get you anything? Like a cab or food or—”

Harry whirled around. “Stop shoving food down my throat!” he snapped. “Okay?”

Ned recoiled, leaning away from Harry. “Yeah… yeah. Sure. Okay,” he said, stepping back. "Sorry."

Harry breathed, regretful, but not guilty for his words. “I have to go.”

It was all he offered before he stormed out of the dance. Ned stayed where he stood, unsure if he should go after him or let him be. Something bad happened. Ned knew that. Harry never yelled at him. 

He went back to the table, shaken from his encounter with Harry. The lights and glitter no longer enticed him to the jubilance of the atmosphere. Even the music sounded deaf to him as he sat, staring at the empty cups and plates left on the table in front of him. Ned shoved it away, not wanting to look at it. 

Phone out, Ned sent a text to Harry: _Sorry for being annoying. Let me know if you need anything._

He put the phone down and waited, watching his dark screen in hopes it lit up. Time ticked passed and his phone never lit up with a new message. No new messages. Nothing. So, Ned pocketed his phone. It was clear Harry wasn’t interested.

Bored and lonely, Ned looked around the gym, trying to spot Peter among the crowds. To his immense disappointment, he didn’t see the familiar face of his best friend. He couldn’t even find Michelle. He sat all alone at the table with no friends. He shouldn’t let himself wallow over the slight snip and dismissal. Harry was angry, but not at him. There was no need to overact. He didn’t do anything wrong. He wasn’t at fault. No need to ruin a good night over something he didn’t contribute to. Yet, Ned struggled to feel as happy as he did earlier in the evening.

“Hey!”

Ned lifted his head and saw Peter stroll up to him. The gel loosened in his hair, his soft curls unraveling, but he didn't seem to mind the upset. His smile was radiant as he took a seat beside Ned. He glowed in pure happiness, the bright lights reflecting in his brown eyes and the sparkles glittering his pale complexion.

When Peter went to speak again, he faltered, noticing Ned’s hurt. “You all right?" he asked. "You look a bit... spooked.”

"Oh, um, yeah," Ned said, clearing his throat and replacing the bummer frown with an attempted smile. "It’s just that Harry… I don’t know. He’s upset.”

“Really? Is everything okay?” Peter looked around the gym. “Where is he?”

“He left,” Ned said. “He came back, grabbed his coat and left. Said something about ‘family emergency’.”

“What? I hope everything is okay,” Peter said, concerned. “Did he not say what exactly?”

Ned shook his head. “Nope. Only that he had to leave and so… he did.”

Peter bit his lower lip, looking back to the doors. “I bet it had something to do with his dad,” he said. “Maybe his dad made him come back home?”

Ned hadn’t thought of that. Maybe that was why Harry was upset. He didn’t want to leave, but Norman Osborn was making him leave. Ned hung out very little around Harry’s dad, but he got the impression Norman wasn’t very kind to Harry. Not that he raised a hand to Harry, but his ignorance of him and the lack of interest in Harry’s life would be enough to drive a complicated relationship between them.

“Harry did say he and his dad got into a fight earlier today,” Ned said.

“Don’t he and his dad get into a lot of fights though?”

“Yeah, but Harry seemed a bit angrier over this one.”

Peter bobbed his head in understanding. “Must not be easy living with Norman Osborn,” he commented. “The man is brilliant, but…”

“Intense?” Ned offered. “Insane? Intolerable?”

“One of those things.”

Ned recalled the night they all met Harry’s father—the great Norman Osborn himself! They all went over to Harry’s apartment to hang-out. It was the most exquisite apartment Ned had ever seen. Two stories, on top of one of the most expensive real estate in Manhattan. Carpeted floors, central AC and a striking chandelier in the entrance wowed Ned to the point he didn’t understand how this one family had all this money to waste on such luxuries. Harry said his father was on a business trip, so they would have the whole apartment to themselves. He gave them the grand tour, he, Peter and Michelle amazed by the vast room and exquisite items that laid about the apartment. Still, they had fun, doing normal things such as listening to music, checking out Harry’s telescope and flipping through first-edition books Harry’s mother collected when she was alive. It was fun and good until Harry’s father burst down the bedroom door, surprising everyone. Ned nearly peed in his pants.

Norman’s surprise appearance wasn’t the most awkward moment of that night. That moment belonged at the dinner table. Ned didn’t notice it at all until afterwards when Peter and Michelle talked about it when they left the apartment building. Norman’s strong interest in Peter and disregard of everyone else put the table at unease. Ned hardly noticed, focusing on the food and letting the others converse with Norman as he was sure he would only embarrass himself in front of the man. In all honesty, he was glad to not be in Norman’s line of vision. He felt sorry that Peter had to sit there with the glaring focus of Norman Osborn on him. Peter surprisingly did well and managed to excuse himself, to which he and Michelle followed.

Ned only say Norman one more time after that. It was for the basketball game to which he remembered Harry grumbling about how his father was angry that he wasted money on an unused ticket because Peter could no longer come to the game. Something about needing to stay and work on something with the Accords. Ned wasn’t quite sure. Since then, Norman hadn’t been around and Ned never returned to Harry’s apartment.

The music changed. The crowd started to thin. A few adults went around to empty tables and seat, collecting the abandoned cups and plates and napkins. The dance was drawing to a close. A few girls drifted closer to the table, whispering to one another as they tried to take secretive glances in their direction.

Correction: in Peter’s direction.

“Hey,” Ned elbowed Peter. “Gwen Stacy is looking at you.”

To Ned’s surprise, Peter didn’t even bother to look over. “A lot of people are looking at me,” he said, but not in a bragging way. More as an observational statement.

“But this is Gwen Stacy!” Ned couldn’t believe in his friend’s casual indifference. After Liz Allan left for Portland, Gwen Stacy became the ‘It Girl’. Beautiful, popular and a sweetheart. She was the girl everyone loved and wanted to be. Well, everyone except Michelle. She was happy being herself.

Then Ned remembered that Peter hadn’t been attending Midtown the past two years. He knew little of Gwen Stacy. They attended a few classes together, but Gwen kept company with her few close friends and didn’t roam in the same circles as Peter and Ned prior to the attack at Midtown.

Still, there was no doubt that Gwen wasn’t the most beautiful girl on campus.

The corner of Peter’s lips tugged upward. “Why don’t you ask her for a dance?”

Ned shook his head. “Oh… no,” he said. “She won’t dance with me.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m not cool.”

Peter curled his nose. “What? Dude—you’re cool!” he argued for his friend. “I mean… look at you! You look sway!”

Ned’s cheeks burned at his friend’s compliment. But still, people like Gwen Stacy didn’t dance with losers like Ned. “I dunno, man,” he said. “I’m kind of tired of dancing anyway. People are leaving…”

Peter pulled his chair up to his friend, blocking his attempt to get out of his seat. “Ned—let me tell you something that I have learned in the past year,” he said, bracing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let people put you in a box. You’re a great guy! One of the best people I have ever known in my life. You can get any girl, Ned. Any! All you gotta do is step outside that box. Shove it aside.”

“You really think so?” Ned said, hopeful.

“Of course! Now, go and ask her for a dance before it’s over!”

The confidence boost struck a match within him. Ned nodded, determined. He got up from his seat and walked over to where Gwen and Betty Bryant stood. He took a deep breath as he made his approach.

He looked back one more time at Peter. His friend gave him a thumbs up as Michelle suddenly appeared, taking his old seat.

This was it. Time to shove the box aside.

Gwen noticed him first and smiled. “Hey Ned!” she said. “I like your tie.”

Ned looked at his tie. It was a striped blue and yellow tie, to honor their school colors. “Oh, um, thank you,” he blubbered. “School spirit.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Ned went silent. He was supposed to say something. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Damn it! He needed to say something. Gwen and Betty were staring at him, waiting. Betty and Gwen exchanged odd looks and Ned felt himself blush even more. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

It was a bad idea. He shouldn’t have gone up to her. He’s a complete fool! He wasn’t cool. He didn’t deserve to dance with someone as pretty as Gwen.

Suddenly, Flash skated on over to the group. He looked posh and rich, far different from Ned’s cheap suit and colored tie. Hair styled like those wannabe California-boys he admired greatly. “Hey, yo, Gwen?” he gestured in his signature flashy manner. “You wanna dance with me?

Gwen blinked in surprise by Flash’s invitation. She quickly threw a glance to Ned, but again, he didn’t say anything. He stood there like an idiot. Quiet and unblinking.

With his lack of response, Gwen turned back to Flash and nodded. “Sure,” she answered and went with him to the dance floor. Before she left though, she gave Ned an apologetic grimace. There was no need for her to do so. After all, Ned was an idiot for saying nothing.

Resigned, Ned shoved his hands in his pockets, turning back to retreat to the table when he was stopped by a tapped finger.

“Hey, Ned?” came Betty’s voice. She looked like a ballerina in her pink dress. “The DJ is about to play the last song of the night. Do you want to dance?”

Ned’s lower lip dropped. His words tumbled out into nonsense. His mind churned too fast, unable to comprehend what he heard or if he heard anything at all. Did Betty Bryant ask _him_ to dance with _her_? “Um… I, err… I-I… sort of… um…”

Unable to get words out, Ned enthusiastically nodded instead as words failed him.

Betty smiled big that her teeth showed. “Great!” she said, taking Ned’s hand in her own. “I hate dancing on my own.”

And Ned never imagined that he would ever be dragged onto a dance floor (or anywhere) by a beautiful girl. He swore he was dreaming, but his racing heart-rate, perspiration in his armpits, and the constant feel of Betty’s hand in his own, ensured him that it was reality. Not a dream at all.

The DJ announced the last song, a classic— _Don’t Stop Believin’_. The crowd cheered and the music started, everyone singing along. Ned watched, amazed to see Betty singing along to the tune and words. She had a pretty voice. Probably why she was the school’s news anchor.

Betty nudged Ned. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the words?”

Ned knew them and with Betty’s egging him to join in, he sang along. Not well, but too many people were repeating the words and jumping up and down. The nervousness he carried unraveled, slipping off him as he sang louder and dance more freely than the stiff bobs he did earlier.

The lights went Technicolor, flashing so fast that Ned thought he would throw up if it continued on. When it came to the last line, they all sang or shouted as loud as they could that it echoed even after the music died. Rounds of applause followed as the adults ushered kids off the floor and the DJ started to pack his records.

Ned turned to Betty. “Thanks,” he said, breathless. “I had a lot of fun.”

“Me too,” Betty said. “Thanks for saving the last dance for me.”

Ned’s face went velvet and he nervously giggled as Betty walked away to grab her coat and belongings. Ned sighed, deeply, butterflies in his stomach as he relived the feeling of dancing with the most beautiful girl in the school.

He backed off the dance floor, heading to the table where he left his coat. Peter still sat at the table, but not alone. Michelle returned, taking his old seat next to Peter. From the looks of it, they didn’t join in for the last song. Their chairs scooted together, knees bumping into each other, heads lowered and speaking quickly to one another. Both were smiling. Happy. Happiest Ned has ever seen his two friends. Ever.

* * *

The dance ended. Their small gang grabbed their coats and hustled out of the gym. Peter already informed Ned that he was staying the night with him, which got Ned ecstatic as it had been too long since they had a sleepover. They had a lot of catching up to do. Just him and Peter.

They stepped out into the ice-cold night where cars lined the sidewalks with parents and cabbies. Michelle's father was one of the parents waiting for their child to come out. He honked, waving to her in his big winter coat and black ear muffs. Michelle did a quick wave in return.

“That's my dad," she said to them, her parka covering up her dress. "I better get going.”

She didn't leave. Not yet. Michelle stood on the steps beside them, staring before her lips turned up into a slight smile. Then, she turned on her feet and went down the stairs to where her father waited. Ned glanced from Michelle to Peter, whose eyes watched Michelle get into the car and drive off. It was only until the car turned around the corner, out of sight, that Peter looked to him. 

"So... should we take the bus or subway?" Peter asked.

They decided on taking the bus, like they used to do when they were younger. When the bus screeched to the stop, Ned paid for both of their rides with his MetroCard and Peter reimbursed him. They slid into the blue, carpeted seats that smelled of body odor. No one noticed them. Heads down, eyes glowing blue as they clutched their phones with laughs or furrowed brows.

They had no clue that Spider-man sat in their presence.

Peter wasn’t even bothered by the lack of recognition. Ned didn’t even think he noticed it at all. He was happy to sit next to the window, drumming on his knee as the bus bumbled down the streets. He was being Peter Parker, before the hoopla and trauma.

Ned and Peter talked, catching up on all the things. Peter told him about his new motorcycle and Captain America (yeah— _freakin’ Captain America_!) taught him how to ride one. Ned asked if he could come up during a weekend to ride it. Peter said he could come up when Tony wasn’t around the compound.

“He hates it,” Peter informed Ned.

Ned wasn’t sure why as he thought Iron Man owned several motorcycles. Ned talked about school, explaining the whole drama of the hierarchy and the decathlon team’s winning streak. Ned went over the championship meet. Unlike last year’s competition, it didn’t come down to a death match. They were ahead by ten points. They dominated the championship and celebrated all night. Michelle, Harry and him stayed up way past midnight.

The bus drove down his street. Ned and Peter got up, moving to the back to get off. As they got to the rear doors, the bus hit a pothole and the vehicle jerked. Ned grabbed the seats to stop himself from falling. Peter glued his fingertips to the ceiling, keeping a balance that drew a few arched eyebrows in his direction.

The bus slowed to the stop. Peter unglued himself and Ned hurried down the bus’s steps with Peter following. A few curious gazes peered out the window in their direction. The bus rolled again, driving away from them before any of the commuters could freak out that Spider-man was with them the entire time.

Ned and Peter strolled the sidewalk, not minding the nip in the cold. Winter certainly arrived in New York. No snow yet, but it promised to come. Ned could see his house. It was in sight. He checked around him, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.

“What are you doing?”

Ned jumped, hand clutching his heart. “Stars! Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Peter questioned.

“Scare me like that!”

“All I did was ask you a question,” Peter said and he glanced around to all the spots Ned was looking at. “What are you looking for?”

“Bad guys.”

The day Captain America, Falcon and police showed up outside his lawn was something Ned would never forget. He cried when told that Peter went missing and a body was found outside his home. Tremors kept him awake and his stomach was in turmoil to the point he vomited multiple times during the night. Peter’s kidnapping brought back terrible memories of Midtown’s attack. Captain America told him and his family that everything was under control, but Ned didn’t believe him. His friend was gone again! Right outside his house.

Since then Ned had been extremely vigilant whenever he left his home. His parents were very protective as well. They wouldn’t let him leave their house on his own, always had to be driven everywhere. It lasted for a month, but Ned still got nervous when he walked home at night. Or early in the morning. Or if a shadow moved.

Peter clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder again and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “We’re fine. Trust me,” he said. “My spidey-sense says we’re safe.”

Ned relaxed. He forgot about Peter’s sixth sense. Nonetheless, he kept up his fast pace, willing to make it to the front porch steps as soon as possible.

They got to his house and hurried inside. Ned closed the door just as his mother popped into the foyer. She beamed at Peter, coming over and taking his face in her hands.

“Look at how much you have grown!” she gushed. “I swear you boys don’t ever stop growing! What do you do to keep getting taller? Here! Let me take your jacket.”

Ned and Peter passed their winter coats to her. She carried them off to the closet in the hallway. When she returned she had a duffel in her hand.

“Your driver stopped by and passed along this,” she handed it off to Peter. “An overnight bag.”

Peter thanked her and took it from her hands. Ned told his mom they were going upstairs to his room to get ready for bed, but his mother had other ideas.

"But first!" Ned's mother scurried away right as his father came down the stairs.

“Oh? Hey there, Pete," his father greeted, clasping Peter's hand like he normally did. "How you doing?”

They shared polite pleasantries until Ned's mother returned with a camera in her hand. She ushered the two boy together. "Come on," she urged. "Closer. Smile!"

“Mom..." Ned groaned as the flash went off. "The dance is already over.”

“So? I didn't get a picture of my son and his friend before the dance," she complained. "I have to get it now. Peter, dear? Stop messing with the bowtie. It's coming undone.”

Peter dropped his hand from his neck and two more flashes went off before Ned's father stopped his mother from doing any more photographs. "The kids are exhausted," he said. "Let them go up to their room and sleep."

His mother's face dipped. "Oh… but I wanted to hear all about it."

“In the morning, Mom," Ned called as he pushed Peter to go up the stairs. "Good night!”

They clambered up the stairs, happy to return to the bedroom where they spent their boyhood days building Legos, playing video games and geeking over Star Wars. Peter already undid his bowtie and shed off his suit-jacket. They changed into their sleepwear, brushed their teeth and Peter took a shower to rinse off the remaining gel in his hair.

Then, they sat around the room, talking and reminiscing their childhood days when things were less stressful and more carefree. Nothing beat the childhood games and fuss over innocent problems that seemed incredibly important at the time. Good, old days, they decided.

“So glad you’re here,” Ned said after a moment, spinning in his desk chair. “It’s been a while since we had one of these. Just you and me, you know?”

“Yeah, I do,” Peter replied, reclined on a bean bag opposite of Ned’s desk chair. “When did our lives get so crazy?”

“When you ran off to join the Avengers.”

“Still not an Avenger, Ned.”

Ned shrugged. In his mind, Peter was an Avenger. “Kind of wish Harry could have joined us.”

“Me too,” Peter agreed. “Did he ever get back to you?”

“No,” Ned said. He and Peter sent text messages to him again, asking if everything was all right, but Harry never responded. “I hope he’s okay.”

“Me too,” Peter said again. He took a swig of water from his glass. “So… you and Betty, huh?”

Ned blushed and casted his eyes down. “Oh, you know,” he muttered. “She wanted to dance with someone for the last song. I was there and so…”

“Gotta stop selling yourself short, Ned,” Peter said. “She asked you!”

“We didn’t slow dance or anything. Just… danced next to each other. Wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.”

“You still got to dance with a girl,” Peter said, regardless of Ned’s dismissal. “Plus, I saw you smiling out there. You looked really happy.”

Ned nodded. “Yeah, I was happy. Today was a good day, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Peter affirmed with his own nod of approval. “One of the best days I have had in a long while.”

Ned noticed Peter’s starry-eyed expression. A trace of a smile lingered on his face as he took furtive looks to his phone. He was humming too. A song that played earlier at the dance. Ned recognized it as _Perfect_.

“So…” Ned drew the word out to grab Peter’s attention. “You and Michelle?”

Peter’s face drew closed. “Huh?”

“You and Michelle looked like you were having a good time dancing with each other,” Ned commented. “I didn’t even know you could dance like that.”

“Mr. Stark taught me,” Peter answered. “But, MJ is a good dancer, so it wasn’t too hard.”

“Uh-huh.”

Peter’s mouth firmed into a straight line. “Don’t start, Ned.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“You can read minds now?” Ned gasped, peering up at Peter’s forehead as if he would be able to see telepathy from there.

Peter brows scrunched into an incredulous look. “What? No!” he said. “Ned—MJ and I are only friends. There’s nothing else between us.”

“Uh-huh.”

Peter frowned. “Come on, Ned,” he said. “Don’t act like that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Ned said, hands up. “Just saw you and Michelle dancing together… during a slow song.”

“So?”

“Just pointing it out.”

Peter stared at him a little longer. “We’re just friends.”

“You said that.”

“I mean it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ned!”

Ned went silent. He watched Peter fidget, trying to control his face from divulging anything. Ned saw right through it all. They were friends for far too long for him to not be able to read Peter. “You know… Michelle likes you. For some time actually.”

Peter picked his head up instantly. “H-how do you know?”

Michelle Jones make keep a stoic expression at all times, but Ned could tell behind the blank facade. While others look at her and see a cold-stone punk or a shy snub, Ned saw something else entirely.

“It’s the way she’s around you. Always looking at you and noticing things about you. Oh—like the time she said you quit marching band and the robotics club,” Ned said, remembering that awkward moment in decathlon practice. Michelle tried to brush it off as being observant, but Ned thought differently. “She always noticed you, Peter. Plus, she lets you call her MJ—”

“Everyone calls her MJ,” Peter dismissed.

Ned shook his head. “Err… no. Only you,” he said. “Harry once called her that nickname and she shot him down almost instantly. You’re the only person allowed to call her MJ.”

Peter started to squirm, unable to meet Ned’s eye. His fingers twitched to the nape of his neck, rubbing it awkwardly to keep his hands busy. To simply _be_ busy to avoid Ned’s inquisition.

Ned pushed forward. “And there was a bit of time you and Michelle were missing,” he said. “Didn’t see either of you in the gym for a while.”

Peter’s lips rolled, his eyes enlarging for a moment. His shoulders hunched, head lowered and he got his fingers to drum again.

Ned recognized those signs and his face burst with excitement. “Omigod! You and Michelle!”

“No… Ned—”

“Are you guys a couple now? Boyfriend and girlfriend?” Ned rapidly questioned. “Did you guys kiss? Wait… how long have you two been dating? Are you dating? You and Michelle…”

“Ned!” Peter shouted a little louder. “You’re overacting. Nothing is… there’s nothing—”

Ned snorted, not believing in Peter’s flubbing lies. “Uh-huh,” he said, face split in a giddy smile. “You’re not a very good liar, Peter. You’re turning redder every time I say Michelle’s name… there it goes again! Redder!”

Peter rolled his eyes and got up from the bean bag. “I’m going to bed,” he decided, not wanting to spiral into such conversation. “I’m about to pass out.”

Peter lunged over Ned to get to the bunkbed. Ned twirled in his chair. “You and Michelle,” he said. “The new power couple in school!”

“Not a couple, Ned.”

“Uh-huh.”

Peter resigned in exasperation before he easily leapt up to the top bunk. Ned chuckled as he crawled to the lower bunk. He threw the covers back and got underneath them, his arms reaching out to the lamp to shut down the only light source in the room.

The room went dark and Ned nestled in his bed. “Hey, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s cool you and Michelle are together,” Ned said, serious and not teasingly as he did earlier. “I think you guys are perfect for one another.”

There was a long pause, silence from Peter’s end. Ned didn’t know if Peter would answer, but his friend’s voice carried back down to him. “Thanks, Ned,” he said and Ned thought he heard a smile in that tone. “Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Ned dropped his head on the pillow. All the adrenaline he earned from the dance and revelation about Peter and Michelle evaporated, leaving him sluggish and exhausted. His muscles responded accordingly, followed by his eyes and his mind. The room got darker and darker as his eyes slid to a close, his mind tuning down to sweet blissfulness.

Today was a good day. The best.

* * *

Ned woke to a hand slapping him on the arm and a harsh voice in his ear. "Ned! Wake up!"

Ned started, dazed by the sudden pull between sleep and waking. He blinked a few times to gain control and he saw Peter hanging upside-down from his top bunk.

"What are you doing?" Ned yawned, stretching his arms over his head.

“Something's happening downstairs.”

That got Ned wide awake in an instant. His immediate thought was of his parents, being in danger by the same people who kidnapped Peter months ago. He listened, but he didn't hear any scuffling or objects breaking or even shouts. Everything was muffled. Voices exchanged and then footsteps. Heavy footsteps that drew closer at it climbed the stairs.

Peter dropped down from the bunk and Ned pushed off his covers to join him. "What do we do?"

Peter looked pensive at the door, waiting, deliberating until a knock on the door forced them to react.

They both jumped back as Ned’s father’s voice replied after the knock. "Ned? Boys?"

The door cracked open and Ned's father stood in the soft glow of the hallway's lights. Behind him was a much larger man, standing almost a head taller than his father. Ned's father shuffled in upon seeing the boys awake, making room for the stranger to enter. 

It was no stranger at all. It was Happy Hogan. 

Peter looked surprised. "H-Happy?" he blundered a bit. "W-What are you doing here?"

“Came to get ya, kid," Happy said, scanning the room. "Where's the suit?”

Before Peter could ask more questions, Happy moved across the room to where Peter hung up the suit he wore to winter formal. Happy fixed the suit on the hanger and got the bowtie to hook properly in its position.

The bodyguard/chauffer glanced over his shoulder to them. "Kid, come on," he snapped his fingers to Peter. "Get some clothes on."

Ned was confused. He looked at the time. It only read two in the morning. Peter told him he was spending the night. So, what was Happy doing at this hour? He didn’t need to be here until at least eight in the morning.

He noticed that Peter’s frown deepened. Apparently, Happy’s visit was a surprise for him too. "Tony promised!" Peter said, upset.

Happy quickly threw the cover over the suit and began to zip it up. "It's not Tony who called me to get you," he answered without even noticing Peter’s frustration. "It was your aunt. Now, get some pants on. Do you have a sweater or something? What about a jacket?"

"His jacket is downstairs," Ned's father answered.

“Oh, okay, good.”

Peter was not happy. His brows furrowed intensively, mouth squished into a pout as he strode over to where his phone was. "I'm calling my aunt."

“Go ahead, kid," Happy said, not at all concerned. "She's been trying to get a hold of you.”

Ned went to Peter's side and saw a dozen or so text messages and missed called from May Parker. Peter checked his messages. They all read the same thing—stay indoors and wait for Happy to come. "What's going on?"

Happy zipped the cover over the suit. "Hell should I know," he said. "Get pants on kid! I'm not taking you outside in your boxers."

“Ned?”

Ned turned to his father, who gestured him to follow him outside to the hallway. Ned went with his dad, following his father to the stairs. "What's going on?" he asked, hoping his father would tell him. Were they in danger? Did they need to leave their house?

His father didn’t say anything, only led him down the hallway.

“Dad?” Ned became nervous. He hated when adults didn’t say anything. “Do we have to leave? Are bad people coming? Is the army coming?”

His father shook his head. "Everything is fine, kiddo," he said. "Just wanted to give them a bit of privacy."

When they got downstairs to the living room, his mother was awake and wearing her robe over her nightgown. She stood in the living room, rambling to a red-headed individual who stayed stoic and poised throughout his mom's utterances. His mother spotted him right away and ignored the guest. 

"Ned dear!" she hurried to her son, but Ned didn't even look at his mom.

His eyes were glued to the visitor. The red-head turned and Ned's breath was completely knocked right out of his lungs. His mouth hung open, his legs jelly, as he gaped at  _the_   _Black Widow_. Who was standing inside his home. In his living room. Listening to his mom!

"Y-You're... you're Black Widow!" Ned gasped, pointing to her. Although, he realized a little too late he should not have pointed.

The famed assassin cocked an elegant eyebrow up. Her lips half-amused by his exclamation. "You must be the famous Ned Leeds."

Ned thought his heart died out. She knew his name! She knew him!

“Peter talks about you," Black Widow revealed her source as Ned continued to gape at her. "Cap even told me you tried to save him from Ross.”

Ned tried to speak, but nothing came out of his voice. Only a croak, followed by a cough. Black Widow’s slender brows arched higher, amused by his nervous stutter. Ned, however, was mortified. Blush crept up his neck, to his cheeks and all the way to the tip of his ears.

A louder commotion happened upstairs. Ned looked up to see Peter dragging his duffel and Happy following him with the suit all zipped up and protected from any type of damage. Happy was talking—more like scolding Peter.

“Why would you not bring a sweater?” he pestered Peter. “It’s freezing outside!”

“I brought a coat,” Peter argued as they came down the stairs. Peter’s hair was in disarray. No time to fix it or even comb it properly. “Why? Are we planning to be outside for a while?”

Happy grumbled and when Peter landed in the foyer, he spotted the small group huddled in the hallway. He glanced at Ned, then to his parents, only to stop at the one person no one ever expected to find in the Leeds’s residence.

“Nat?” Peter said, surprised by Black Widow’s appearance. “What are you doing here?”

Black Widow brushed passed Ned and went to Peter. “I came to help Happy pick you up.”

Peter’s face paled, becoming highly aware that something was deathly wrong. “What’s going on? Is it Dead—”

Happy cut him off when he threw his jacket in his face. “Coat. Now,” the chauffeur ordered. “I’m not going to be blamed if you get frostbite.”

Peter begrudgingly put on his coat, but Ned saw the nervous ticks as he buttoned up his coat. Happy handed him his shoes as well and Peter slipped his feet into those shoes. As he tied them, he looked up to Black Widow.

“Is Aunt May okay?” Peter asked and Ned heard the anxious worry in his friend’s voice. If anything ever happened to Aunt May, Peter would disintegrate into nothingness. “She’s not hurt is she?”

Black Widow shook her head. “She’s fine.”

“Then what’s going—”

“Are you done tying your shoes?” Happy asked, annoyed that Peter was taking so long to get ready.

Peter huffed, but he finished up knotting his laces together. He stood to his full height and grabbed his duffel bag, ready to go back outside in the cold world. Happy reached for the door to shuffle Peter out, but his friend moved away from Happy’s reach.

“Can’t I at least say goodbye this time?” Peter asked, looking from Happy to Black Widow.

Happy and Black Widow shared a quick glance before Black Widow nodded to Peter. “Yeah, go ahead,” she said, stepping aside to let Peter have room to make it to Ned and his parents.

Peter squeezed passed Black Widow, shuffling down the hallway to join Ned’s campout. His friend looked tired and stressed. No amount of eye rubbing would wear away those heavy bags under his eyes.

But, Peter morphed his face into a casual expression. No longer holding his petulant upset at being dragged from his bed. Although, Ned knew Peter wasn’t happy at being woken so early in the morning for something that may or may not be bad. His aunt’s messages looked a bit troubling.

“I guess I have to go,” Peter announced. There wasn’t much else to say. Ned wished he didn’t have to leave. He knew Peter wished the same.

“Is everything okay, though?” Ned tentatively asked. “Nothing… nobody is coming for you, right?”

Peter shrugged. He didn’t appear to know what was going on. He knew as much as Ned. “I don’t know, but I’ll let you know once I do. I promise,” he said, raking his nervous fingers through his hair. “Sorry I have to leave in the middle of the night like this. I can make it up to you. What about New Year’s Eve at my place?

Ned squeaked in delight at the prospect. “New Year’s Eve at the Avengers’ Compound?!” he said. “I’m there!”

Peter laughed a little and they embraced. “Talk to you soon, man.”

Ned knew Peter meant it. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Of course,” Peter said. “You’re my ‘Guy in the Chair’. I’ll always call you.”

Ned smiled, but seeing the sad looks on Black Widow’s and Happy’s face made it hard for him to keep it in place. Peter said his goodbyes to Ned’s parents before he joined up with his entourage. Happy led the charge, grumbling about the winter season while Black Widow walked in rhythm with Peter, speaking to him.

“How was your dance?” Black Widow asked as they exited the house in the dead of night.

Ned never heard Peter’s response and his father closed the door and double-locked it. Ned’s mother kept rubbing her hands up and down her arms, biting down her lower lip. Her eyes never left the front door.

Ned flickered a glance between his parents. “Everything is okay, right?” he asked them. “Nothing—”

“Of course,” Ned’s father recovered into a false sense of security for him. “They, um, his aunt wanted him home. Worried about him. That sort of thing.”

Ned’s mother nervously fidgeted, looking away from her son to the kitchen. “Let me make you a cup of hot chocolate,” she said, already running off to the kitchen before Ned could decline. “It’ll warm your cold nerves.”

With his mother gone and his father reclusively mute, Ned got the feeling that something wasn’t right. Something big was about to happen. Something that would shatter his world all over again.

Ned suddenly didn’t feel so good anymore. He could use that hot chocolate now.


	30. Everett Ross III

It was the penultimate moment. The act to start the domino effect surrounding everything they had worked hard to solve. Late nights, early mornings, stressful situations, constant anxieties and never-ending sense of danger kept Everett Ross and his team of agents on the go every, single day. And now, they came upon the final effort of their work. Upon review of documents and linking all evidence together, they caught their culprit. Culprits to be exact. It was an over-arching network that expanded far before Everett ever joined the department. Nonetheless, that did not mean the crime committed should be forgotten nor forgiven. 

They received their warrant, but before Everett stormed ahead, he made a call. An important call.

The phone rang only once before answered. "Hey, Everett," replied May Parker and he thought he heard a smile in her voice. "How are you?"

He didn't quite know how he felt. Relieved, stressed, happy and sad all in one. "I'm fine," he answered. "I called to inform you that we were granted a warrant."

“A warrant?”

He nodded, but realized May could not see him. "We're arresting Norman Osborn," he informed her. "Tonight."

He heard her suck in a deep breath. "Tonight?" she uttered. "Now?"

“Yes.”

He heard a few disturbances in the background, feet shuffling and doors opening and closing. "I, um, Peter's not here," she said, worried. "He's out with his friends. They’re at a school dance. He's... tonight? You’re arresting him  _tonight_?"

"He bought a plane ticket to Europe for this Sunday," Everett said in hopes that it would explain the necessary to go tonight. If they wait, Osborn may escape forever.

He heard May breathe in sharply. "I-I... I have to let the others know," her voice muffled. "Do you want them to come with you?"

“No," Everett replied. No need to drag the Avengers into the situation quite yet. "Let us handle the arrest and if back-up is necessary, I'll give a call.”

“Okay,” May responded in a constricted voice. “Everett?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

He smiled at her words. “Always,” he returned and they said their goodbyes.

Agent Sharon Carter joined him in the car as they drove off into the city, weaving through traffic to reach the apartment complex Osborn coveted as his home. There was a van behind them, full of officers ready as back-up and to assist in escorting Norman Osborn to prison. Still, there was a sense of dread lingering in the air, like something unexpected was about to occur.

“You okay, boss?” Sharon asked.

Everett nodded. “Yeah, yeah,” he answered, clutching the warrants. “It’s finally happening.”

“He deserves it.”

Everett knew he did. All the evidence they have gathered against Osborn was disturbing enough to keep Everett paranoid. How deep did the conspiracy go? Too many connections coincided with the Parker family. Too many interactions that could not be viewed as accidents or mere coincidences. It made Everett sick to think Osborn had such dark plans for someone as kind-hearted as Peter.

They pulled up right outside the Central Park West apartment. The doorman looked confused as Everett and the others hopped out of the car, storming to the apartment entrance. The greeter at the desk looked wide-eyed as they made their approach into the marble-flooring, tall ceiling lobby. Their shoes clattered as they approached and the doorman stood at attention, doing his best to hide any emotions he felt at the moment.

Everett’s team took care of the doormen. They got the spare keys and gathered up into the elevator. The light on the PH button bright. They went up and up. Not stopping at all.

Norman Osborn was home. The doorman confirmed. His son was out though. That was fine with Everett. Better to not have the kid around to see his father arrested.

The elevator pinged and the doors opened. They clambered out and Everett knocked loud on the door. “Mr. Osborn?” Everett called out. “Mr. Osborn? It’s the authorities—open the door. Please.”

Sharon shot him a questionable look, but Everett shrugged off her expression. Nothing wrong with being civilized. They waited with bated breaths, but no response followed. Not a single sound could be heard from the other side.

Time for civility was gone. Time to invade. Everett gave permission to unlock the door and his fellow agent unlocked it the granted key. Everett entered first, as always. As a focal leader of the task force, he believed it was his duty to lead the charge into danger.

To Everett’s surprise, the penthouse was not dark or menacing as he imagined. The lights were on, the hallway cleaned and precise. No clutter or obnoxious displays of the man’s wealth. The décor was rich and plain, nothing stood out except the chandelier that hung right above their heads.

Everett scanned around him. Too odd. Osborn couldn’t have known they were coming unless one of his own betrayed them. Still, the warrant came in tonight. No time for him to race to the airport and get on a plane. Not only that, but the doorman said he hadn’t left. Unless the doorman lied, which was a possibility.

Sharon came up beside him. “You think he ran?”

“I don’t know,” Everett said. “Search the penthouse. Keep up your guard.”

Everett didn't reach for his gun. Sharon had hers out. Always ready to fire, but Everett held off. He had his hand on the weapon, ready to be drawn if necessary. Spreading out, the team searched the penthouse. Everett silently glided his feet over the hardwood floors, checking room to room. Sharon was close behind him, covering his back as they proceeded to the next room.

“WE GOT A BODY!”

Everett and Sharon picked their heads up. A body?

They raced across the first floor, straight to the source of commotion. A group of agents already huddled around something sprawled in the middle of a lounge-like room. Everett pushed his way through as his agents fell off to the side to make room. When he reached the front, Everett breathed.

It wasn’t Norman Osborn. Or Harry. It was an older gentleman, dressed in a butler’s uniform. Everett squatted, examining the body. Something hit the man’s chest as blood seeped through his shirt and grey vest. His black coat sprawled off his shoulder, soaking in the blood that pooled underneath him. There was nothing they could do for the man. He was dead.

Everett rose up and pulled out his gun. “He’s armed,” he said. “Everyone keep a look out.”

Everyone proceeded with caution. Everett took to the winding staircase. Sharon followed. The lights on the second floor were on and; yet, he heard no noise. They split up, each talking a corridor. Everett slinked down his corridor, back pressed against the wall as he tip-toed across the floor. His senses on high alert, ready to react if danger approached.

He checked each door, looking down at the gaps between the floor and the door for any shadow or light. Each door he came across were dark. Lights off and doors closed. Except one.

It wasn’t too far from the stairs. A warm glow appeared in the gap, signaling someone was behind the door. Everett tightened his fingers around the gun. His pulse didn’t rise. It stayed steady. But it sounded louder than normal.

He breathed as he opened the door. Like in all the exercises and drills he performed, Everett kept his backside protected and front at an angle to ensure survival as he entered the room. Though, it proved pointless when the cool touch of a gun’s barrel was pressed against his temple.

“Welcome to the party, pal!”

* * *

Everett groaned at the sight of head-to-toe, red tight spandex nut-case standing beside him. He tried to glare at Deadpool, but the muzzle of his gun forced Everett to look straight ahead where he saw Norman Osborn.

Osborn looked pissed. Brows furrowed to the point deep crevices formed along his forehead and his eyes blazed with deep fury at the direction of Deadpool. The man showed no signs of injury or even a single bruise. Deadpool must have shortly arrived before Everett and his team.

Everett took a breath. He needed to tread carefully. Deadpool may be an ally, but an ally to who was the question. It was clear he loathed the Avengers. His constant mockery of them and lack of hospitality proved it. The only reason Deadpool assisted or even tolerated the Avengers was because of Peter Parker. For some unknown reason, Deadpool obsessed over Peter.

But, Everett didn’t know if that obsession extended any safety net to him or his team. Deadpool already killed the butler. He could possibly kill him too.

Deadpool gestured for Everett to enter the room. Not wanting to be shot dead, Everett did. Once the door closed behind him and locked it, Deadpool plucked the gun from Everett’s hand.

“Let’s keep it in the pants, shall we?” Deadpool said, stuffing Everett’s gun right into… argh, gross!

Deadpool motioned Everett to move further into the office. “Well, I have to say I’m thirty-six percent impressed,” he said. “I didn’t think you guys would come knocking. I mean, you’ve been weeks behind me for months! And then— _pow_!—you suddenly show up? What the hell? I do all the work and you piggyback off to beat me to the punch? Yeah. Nope. Not today, Satan!”

Everett stared, befuddled at the lunatic’s ramblings. “What?”

“Point is this,” Deadpool drew the gun to focus on Everett, “you’re not going to get in my way.”

It was a threat. A warning on behalf of another. “You know there are other agents in the apartment,” said Everett. All he had to do was shout and Sharon would come running.

“I’m aware of your stag party,” Deadpool acknowledged, but he didn’t act bothered by the revelation he was outnumbered. Almost like was perfectly normal for him to be in a worse situation. “I am also aware that this bullet can travel 1,500 feet per second compared to your shout speed of 1,000 per second. So… the blood is in my favor.”

Everett swallowed. Deadpool made it quite clear would not hesitate to shoot him. He shuffled back, hoping Sharon would notice his disappearance. She would, but when?

Deadpool took a seat, lounging his legs over the armrests. “To catch up, Agent,” he said, resting his head on the gun. “I was telling Osborn here how I was planning to kill him. You know? Good, old fashion locker room, boy-talk.”

Everett arched his brows in Deadpool’s direction. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

Out of principle and morals, Everett couldn’t let Deadpool go on a killing spree. Even if Osborn deserved death for his crimes.

Naturally, Deadpool chose to ignore him. He turned his black and white eyes to Osborn. “Let’s talk shop,” he said. “Now… I thought of different scenarios on how to kill you. Even brought up the idea of dissection like kids do to pigs in science class. I know! Fan-favorite. Good idea and everything, but alas, our time together is ticking faster than expected. Faster for you, of course.”

Osborn frowned. His face contorted into an ugly mien that resembled a goblin as he glared at Deadpool. “Who hired you? Huh? Was it Otto?” Osborn spat out. “I’ll pay you double! Triple!”

The crazy mercenary laughed aloud. “If I wanted money,” he started, “I would have gone to Stark.”

That hit a nerve with Osborn. His face pinched even tighter, nose flaring in upset. Everett preferred if the man was silent. Then again, Everett doubted the man’s silence would spare him of Deadpool’s wrath.

Osborn blinked, eyes glittering in madness. “You’re a psychopath,” he darkly muttered. “One of those mad-mutants that ought to be—”

“Me?” Deadpool shot to his feet. “I’m the psychopath?” Deadpool sauntered over to Everett, loping an arm around his shoulders like old buddies. “Can you believe this guy, Agent? He calls me a psychopath. Like wearing a red spandex suit and carrying more weapons to count on the hips is considered ‘not normal’. Unbelievable! This is the latest fashion-trend! It’s in all the films nowadays!”

Osborn stared, dumbfounded by the response. He switched his gaze from Deadpool to Everett, a dangerous glitter in the man’s eyes.

“Why else would the EIU be here?” Osborn hissed.

“Oh? Him?” Deadpool jerked the gun at Everett’s head, to which Everett flinched. “He’s not here for me. He’s definitely here for you,” Deadpool slides his arm off Everett’s shoulder and moves away, gun in hand. “You’re the big bad in this series. Not Thaddeus Ross. You.

“Although, I give you props on redirecting the blame to others,” Deadpool remarked. “First your partner, then your ally, and then you reached out to mercs to do the job. Keep your hands clean, but your money bloody.”

Osborn pursed his lips together in denial. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Every liar’s first defense,” Deadpool snubbed, stalking up to Osborn. “Well—here’s mine!”

Deadpool spun up the gun, aimed right at Osborn. He was going to kill him!

“ _No_!” Everett shouted, not even realizing it was his voice that made the noise. He didn’t even comprehend that his legs were moving. All of a sudden, he was there, standing partly in the middle, trying to distract Deadpool to him.

Deadpool didn’t fire. Instead, the red, black and white mask turned to him and even though Everett couldn’t see the man’s face, he knew that Deadpool glared hard at him. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Don’t kill him!”

Deadpool pulled out Everett’s gun from his dick and cocked it. “Keep talking and series 4 of Sherlock will definitely be the finale.”

Everett didn’t know what he meant by that, but the gun in his face made him believe that Deadpool won’t hesitate to shoot him dead. Still, he didn’t step aside. “Hasn’t there been enough violence already?”

“You’re fondling my balls.”

“No,” Everett responded, grossed out by Deadpool all over again. Despite abhorring by Osborn, he needed the man alive. At least to serve his sentences for the crimes he committed. “You can’t kill him.”

Deadpool’s chest puffed. A breath of agitated air followed. “You know what this little, fuckin’ cock-sucker did!”

“I know, I know.” Everett knew more than he would have liked of what Osborn had done.

“Then shut the fuck up!” Deadpool snapped. His friendly demeanor dissipating quickly. “I’m actually trying to do a decent thing here—which I normally wouldn’t ever do—all for Baby Boy’s peace of mind.”

He meant Peter. Deadpool was going to kill Osborn for Peter. “Killing Osborn won’t help Peter,” he argued. “It won’t make things better.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Peter is friends with Norman’s son!”

Deadpool shrugged, not caring that Peter’s friendship was on the line. “Probably sic his son on him,” he commented. “Little spy of his own!”

Perhaps, but Everett doubted Harry knew the true meaning behind his enrollment to Midtown. And it was impossible for Osborn to predict that his son would befriend Peter’s friends. “That doesn’t change the fact that Peter is friends with him,” he said. “Killing the father in Peter’s name would ruin that friendship!”

Deadpool hardly looked convinced. “Osborn treats his son like shit. I doubt his spawn would care if he died.”

“He’s still his father,” Everett countered. No matter the challenging relationship, a father and son’s bond was hard to break, “and if you kill him, then Harry will turn on Peter. Is that what you want? For Peter to feel responsible and lose a friend?”

“He won’t be responsible! I’m giving Petey-boy a clear conscious,” Deadpool counter-argued. “I’m doing the killing _for_ _him_. He doesn’t have to have his little webbed hands dirty. That’s what real friends would do for one another.”

Everett lividly shook his head. “Killing in the name of justice doesn’t make it justice!” he said, tone heated over the absurdity. “And if you call yourself Peter’s friend, then you know he would hate this! Just like he hated you for torturing Secretary Ross!”

Deadpool paused. Everett got through to him… he thinks. “I don’t like this man any more than you do,” he said, careful and delicate to avoid aggravating the mercenary. “But we have to follow the law. You won’t be the hero tonight if you shoot him and Peter… he’ll never forgive you for taking another life in his name.

“Put the gun down,” he beseeched to the mercenary. “You want to get justice? Then let the law handle Osborn. He’ll receive the justice he deserves and Peter can be safe again. There’s enough violence in this story. Peter doesn’t need any more blood added to his history.

“Please?” Everett made one last appeal to Deadpool. “Put the gun down. Let me arrest Osborn. Let’s do it the right way. Okay?”

Deadpool took a moment. He glanced from Osborn’s petrified face back to Everett. It was a tense moment of time. Air stiffened. Hearts raced. Eyes focused and time slowed as Deadpool debated to do the right thing.

Everett hoped Deadpool made the right choice.

Deadpool stopped his head swivel on Everett. “Yeah—nope.”

And he shot three times. All right into Osborn’s chest.

* * *

Everett heard Sharon’s shouts from afar as Osborn dropped to the floor. The moment the first bullet rang out, Everett leapt at Deadpool, struggling to get the gun out of the mercenary’s hands. Deadpool was quite strong and the struggle erupted into grunts and squeaks and some flirtious comments from Deadpool (“Ooooh… harder, man, harder!”). Everett pried his fingers around Deadpool’s, trying to rip them away from the gun until Deadpool bonked him hard on the head.

He fell as someone pounded on the door, trying to get into the office. Deadpool looked at the frantic twisting of the doorknob, unafraid that agents were about to storm into the room.

“Think of it this way,” Deadpool offered as he stared down at Everett. “I cleansed the world of evil.”

The door busted open and Sharon led the charge into the office. Her gun pointed, aimed right for Deadpool. A clicking sound reverberated around the room.

“That’s my cue!” With that remark, Deadpool saluted Everett and dashed. He sprinted off to the window, smashing right into it, the glass shattering like glitter as Deadpool swan-dived to his death.

Everett stared at the broken window, the biting cold swooping in to reign terror on the warmth. His breaths were ragged, eyes unblinking as he tried to recover from his hit and the fact Deadpool did what he did.

A choked cough jerked Everett’s attention away from the window.

Osborn laid a few feet away, his shirt staining red faster with each passing second.

“Shit!” Everett scrambled over to Osborn as Sharon hurried over to join them.

“What happened?” Sharon muttered, too shocked to see Norman Osborn bleeding out. “Was that—”

“Call an ambulance!” Everett shouted as he remembered his medical training from the academy. He ripped Osborn’s shirt open, the blood seeping out. None of the wounds looked good. Too much blood. Hard to see.

Sharon was speaking to someone on the phone. A few agents ran out of the office, off to chase down Deadpool. A few stayed behind, one assisting Everett with Osborn’s injuries.

Osborn’s eyes roamed wildly like they were trying to find anything. Something! Everett silently cursed Deadpool for his rashness. If Osborn died…

Norman Osborn’s eyes miraculously locked on Everett. His lips parted, blood dribbling down his bottom lip. “M-My boy…”

Everett remembered Harry. He was at the school dance. With Peter. Both unaware that their lives and friendship dramatically changed. “Stay here, Mr. Osborn,” he ordered, if only for Harry’s sake. And Peter’s too. “Stay alive. For Harry.”

Osborn’s chest seized. “T-Tell… him…”

“Tell him yourself.”

“Tell... P-Peter…”

Everett’s heart stopped. All the breath in his lungs froze as he looked from the bloody mess to Osborn’s constricted face, pulverized in agony.

Osborn stuttered through the blood. “H-He was all… I hoped.”

Ice struck right through Everett. Heart silent. Mind blank. Eyes wide in the horror of Osborn’s last confession. The revelation—the lack of remorse!—twisted Everett’s gut into an uncomfortable knot. Disturbed, Everett retracted his blood-smeared hands from Osborn’s wounds.

The man was far sicker than Everett originally thought. No wonder Deadpool shot him.

Osborn’s eyes flickered as the other agent continued to assist, keeping him alive as long as possible. Everett could only stare.

“Boss?”

Everett twisted his neck up, spotting Sharon kneeling down beside him. “Boss?” she repeated. “Medic is on their way up.”

He numbly nodded. “Okay.”

“Boss?”

Everett breathed, chest tightening. “Call our friends,” he told her. “Tell them… tell them Deadpool was here.”


	31. Tony Stark III

“What do I tell him?”

The question hung over everyone’s heads. Not just May Parker who voiced it. She kept nibbling on his fingertips as she paced in the lobby, waiting for Peter to come home.

Tony was with her. As was Pepper, Steve, Wanda, Vision and Sam Wilson. They all gathered in the lobby upon receiving the call that Deadpool had shot Osborn before the agents could arrest him. Once they heard that Deadpool was involved, no one wasted any time.

May wanted Peter back home immediately. It wasn’t safe. Not with Deadpool running wild in the city, shooting bullets. She wanted him back in the compound, safe with her and the others who could protect him. Tony shipped out Happy and Romanoff. Happy could drive them quickly and Romanoff would protect him without drawing too much attention.

Agent Ross promised to keep them updated. So far, Osborn was in critical condition. Unknown if he would survive or not. Agent Ross continued to talk to May, privately, and seemingly passed on some dire words to May as she paled considerably and resembled a ghoul with white skin and striking red hair.

Whatever it was, May couldn’t stop moving until Peter was home.

“This is going to _break_ _him_ ,” May quivered, biting her nails as she paced pass them. “I-I… I don’t know what to say. I mean… what can I say to make this easier?”

“Nothing you’ll say will make this easy for him,” Tony said.

May shot him a cursed look. “I know that!” she snapped. “ _None of this is easy_!”

Pepper went to May and wrapped an arm around her, hugging her to calm May down. "Hey... it's okay," Tony heard her whisper. "Don't mind Tony."

May sniffled, trying desperately not to cry. And Tony was left hanging, unsure how to explain what he meant. 

“What Stark means,” Steve interceded to tame the situation, “is that you should tell him the truth. It won’t be easy, but he deserves to know everything.”

May breathed, unevenly. “He won’t take it well,” she muttered. “He won’t… all his life. This _man_ has manipulated his _entire life_!”

Tony prickled thinking how Norman Osborn had drastically changed Peter’s life from better to worst. Peter was a kid! A naïve, innocent, and kind boy whose life was constantly altered on Osborn’s whims and desire for power. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

“Not anymore,” Wilson piped up from his end of the room. “He won’t harm a hair on that kid.”

“Not on our watch,” Steve asserted in agreement. “Peter’s safe.”

Was he though? Tony thought. Norman never directly went after Peter. He always hired others to get him like with Bull’s Eye and Tombstone. Did Norman hired more mercenaries to carry out his agenda? Did Norman have a back-up plan if caught? Tony remembered Agent Ross mentioning the man had two tickets for Europe.

He had an inkling that the second ticket wasn’t for his son.

Wanda came up to May's other side, putting her hand on her shoulder. There was no red glow to help ease her frantic thoughts. Nothing. Just a small, comfortable squeeze.

“You are a strong woman,” Wanda observed. “Pietro will need you. Be there. That’s what he needs.”

Wanda Maximoff would know. She lost her twin brother in a devastating way. She never got the chance for a proper good-bye and it left her broken. Her other half was lost, leaving a wound in her life. Only Vision’s constant companionship and compassion saved her.

Vision floated down, strolling up to her. “Peter is a smart boy,” he said. “He will understand.”

And Vision still needed some emotional growth. He hardly interacted with teenagers and their range of emotions. But, at least he was positive, and sounded more empathetic than the robotic tones he originally carried upon his “birth”.

They heard soft chattering coming from the distance. A gentle rumble coming in the direction of the elevators.

“ _Boss?_ ” came FRIDAY’s voice. “ _Mr. Hogan and Ms. Romanoff arrived with Mr. Parker. They are on their way up_.”

Shit. That quick? Happy violated the traffic laws.

May sucked in a deep breath, eyes blinking a bit to gain composure. She brushed her hair away from her eyes, moving closer to the elevator to greet her nephew. Pepper sent her a tight smile and whispered something to May before she moved to join her fiancée.

The elevator doors opened and Happy, Romanoff and Peter walked out. Romanoff strode into the lobby first, greeting Steve and Sam, who welcomed her back. Happy was carrying the suit with delicacy, while Peter somewhat dragged his duffel, yawning loudly and eyes blinking wearily. It was clear they interrupted his beauty sleep based off the rumpled pajamas and the tousled curls in disarray. 

Once he recovered from his yawn, Peter noticed the crowd. “Oh—hey there,” he said, taking in the team’s appearance at such an odd hour. “W-What’s going on? Why is everyone awake?”

No one answered right away and Peter looked to May. “Aunt May?” he sounded worried. “Are you okay? You didn’t say—”

“Oh, um, I… I wanted to…”

Too awkward to talk about a private matter in front of a crowd. He quickly darted a look around the lobby, spotting an unoccupied conference room. “Hey, May? If you want, you and Peter can talk in the conference room,” he offered, pointing to the empty room. “Give you guys some privacy.”

May escorted a baffled Peter to the room to talk. Peter tried to take his bag with him, but Happy took it from his hands as he passed. Peter’s expression grew more and more confused and anxious, checking everyone’s face twice as if expecting someone to be missing. No one was missing (not including Rhodey, who was in transport). 

May closed the door and Tony ordered FRIDAY to tint the windows of the conference room to give them extra privacy while they all waited outside.

Tony let out a steam of stressed air. “Now we wait.”

Pepper gave him a look. “This isn’t a show, Tony.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Tony said, remembering the day he received the news of his parents’ death. The devastation of losing his mother crippled him, but it was the intense press interference that turned his hurt into a media circus.

He wished that it wouldn’t happen to Peter.

He doubt it.

“Should we go then?” asked Sam, looking to Steve and Tony for a response.

“Best we stay,” Steve answered first. “Just in case.”

“Of what?”

“Of many things. Peter may suffer from sensory overload," Tony filled in for Sam and the others. "Or he may try to run?”

“So we are to be his guards then?” questioned Wanda, not favorably. She must remember her house arrest.

“His support," Steve clarified. "Grief takes many shapes and it is best we are all here to help."

Tony felt Steve's eyes on him when he spoke. It was Steve's way of saying in case things go terribly wrong, better to have strength in numbers to stop Peter from going ballistic like Tony did in Serbia. Granted, Tony had every fucking right to be mad at Cap and his childhood friend. He was betrayed and lied to by someone he considered a friend, about his own parents' death. His mother's horrible murder. Tony believed he reacted reasonably. 

Nonetheless, Captain America made a good point. If Peter had the same reaction as him, what could May do to stop an enhanced individual from running off? Of course, he wouldn't acknowledge Steve's assessment. Tony sighed loudly and plopped on the couch, acting board. 

Tony looked at Happy, standing there awkwardly with the suit and duffel. "Hey—Hap?" he called his friend's attention. "You wanna take that to the kid's apartment?"

Happy stared. "Now?"

"What better time? Nothing’s happening.”

Happy grudgingly nodded and returned to the elevator, going up to return the items back to the Parker residence. Everyone else settled down on the couches and chairs, sitting quietly. They couldn’t hear anything from the conference room. Not that they should, but Tony thought he would have heard at least a loud muffle.

Pepper brushed down her dress over her knees and cleared her throat to end the static silence. “How was the car ride back?” she asked Romanoff. “Peter wasn’t too worried or anything?”

“He was sleepy,” Romanoff answered, crossing her legs in front, reclining into the cushion. “Didn’t talk too much. I asked him about his dance to keep him occupied and unsuspecting.”

“Dance?” Wanda’s brows bunched in perplexed. “What dance?”

“Yeah… kind of like a school tradition,” Wilson explained. “Schools host dances for the kiddies because they think it’s a grown-up activity for them.” He looked back to Romanoff. “So—the kid go with anyone?”

“He went with friends,” Steve said.

“But—” Tony interrupted. “He did learn to dance. You know, to dance with someone.”

“I’m guessing you know who?” Wilson said.

“Just a girl.”

“Michelle Jones,” Romanoff said.

Tony turned sharply to Romanoff. “You know?” he said, surprised. “Did he tell you? Did he dance with her?”

Romanoff rolled her head off to the side. “I just know.”

Even without her vast intelligence network (including her partner-in-crime, Clint Barton), Natasha Romanoff have went a day without knowing everything about everyone. It perplexed Tony how quickly she obtained information. But, once a spy, always a spy.

“Did he have a good time at least?” Pepper hoped. She wanted Peter to enjoy some normalcy.

“He danced a few times,” Romanoff commented. “Mentioned dancing with someone.”

Tony smirked. Peter danced with MJ. After all, he didn’t spend all morning and afternoon teaching the kid to dance and getting him dressed to perfection. He made him dapper and ready to charm even the serious-faced MJ.

Pepper smiled. “As long as he had a good time,” she said. “Glad he got some kind of normalcy before—”

She was cut off by the sound of a door wrenching open and a woman shouting, “Peter! Peter! Wait—”

Everyone spun to the back door, surprised to see Peter teetering out of the conference room. His eyes were wide and lost. He was in a state of shock. His breathing ragged as he stumbled on his feet into the lobby.

Tony immediately stood. He watched Peter. The kid’s feet shifted and slid, unaware where he stepped. He took three more uneven steps until he came to a sudden halt. He looked up, now noticing that everyone in the room was up and watching him. 

May came whipping out from around the door, glasses fallen to the tip of her nose. "Peter?” she tried to get his attention again. “Sweetie?"

Peter ignored her. He pressed himself against the wall as his only support, looking out at everyone's faces with wounded realization.

“Peter?” came Pepper's soft voice through the silence that enveloped the room.

Peter's eyes grew red, glossy and shiny. His mouth trembled as he darted a look to each face. “You knew…” he sniffed, trying to breathe through his clogged nose. “ _You all knew_.”

Guilt tugged Tony’s gut. He tried to approach Peter to give him an explanation, but the boy backed away. “You lied to me!” he shouted, betrayal shining in those wide eyes that glanced between him and Steve Rogers. “Both of you! You lied! You…”

He paused, scanning the faces again in a bout of panic. “Does Clint know?” he asked. “Did he know about all of this too?”

Hawkeye? Why was Peter worried about the former archer knowing of the investigation? All Barton ever did was collect a bag of missing documents. He didn’t even stay around to chat. Left the next morning.

Romanoff eased Peter’s worries. “No,” she answered. “Barton doesn’t know. He only knows about Secretary Ross. Not about Osborn.”

Knowing that Hawkeye had no involvement with the secrecy gave some relief to the kid. Peter looked calmer, but there was a shadow of sadness to his face and a hurt that flickered in his eyes as he looked to them for an explanation. For something.

They all looked at each other, hoping the other person would speak on their behalf. None of them wanted to take the full blame. Most eyes laid on Tony. After all, he brought the kid into the messy world of superheroes.

Pepper elbowed him, gesturing him to approach the kid.

Tony started, moving slowly as to not startle Peter. He pretended to miss the tears glistening Peter’s eyelashes, swallowing before he spoke. “Um… kid? Look—we didn’t want to say anything—”

“So you lied?” Peter lashed out at him, red creeping up his neck and dotting his cheeks. “To my face?”

“No,” Tony shook his head. The kid wasn’t understanding. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“Keeping secrets is the same!”

Tony exhaled, thinking back to Serbia when he discovered the secret Captain America hid from him. He wondered if Peter hated him as much as he hated Captain America for keeping secrets.

To which, Steve stepped into the fray. “Son, we’re sorry we hurt you,” he started, sounding empathetic. “That was never our intention. What we told you in Queens was the truth, just not the whole truth. You see… we weren’t quite sure how deep this conspiracy was and we didn’t want you to get caught up in it. We wanted to protect you. We thought we were.”

Peter disbelieved everything good, old Captain America said. “Swell job, then.”

“Peter? Please—don’t be mad at them,” May intervened, trying to get closer to her kid, but Peter stepped away from her reach. “I told them I didn’t want you involved.”

“But I am involved, Aunt May!” he argued, face blotching. “It’s my life! How am I not involved with my own life?”

“Peter—”

“You should have told me!" Peter cried, eyes squeezed into anguished slits. "They're my parents—”

Peter’s voice ceased into quietness. All the words and sounds gone, leaving them in dreadful silence. Too silent. Struck by a newfound wave of agony by the way his face went a shade whiter. His eyes glazed over, unseeing and stupor. 

Tony slid closer to Peter. "Hey, kid? Underoos?" he tried to grab the boy's attention. He was an arm stretch away from the broken-hearted kid. "Peter?"

“My parents.”

It was a soft murmur. A mumble, to be honest, but Tony heard him. 

Peter shook. His arms wrapped tightly around him, but he couldn't stop shaking. His eyes were glued to the floor, distant, as he muttered again. "My parents... my mom... dad..."

" _Peter_!" Tony tried again, but it was too late.

Peter dropped. His knees buckled and he fell in a crumbling heap. He landed hard on the floor’s surface with a loud crack that made everyone wince. Yet, it was nothing compared to what Peter released.

It was the worst sound Tony's ever heard in his entire life. He couldn’t describe it. No words matched what cursed them all. It struck everyone right in their centers, grounding them where they stood. Helpless to move or act.

Nothing sounded more petrifying than the wails of child in agony.

May ran to her fallen nephew, pulling him up from the floor to a sitting position. She embraced him, tightly, his head tucked underneath her chin. She said nothing. Only held him in her arms as Peter sobbed into her, gripping his aunt’s sleeves for dear life.

Tony dropped his gaze. He still heard Peter. That tears did not end. It brought back the painful memories of his parents’ murder. The day he learned of their deaths and the years afterwards. The longing, the missing, and the acceptance that he would never have his mother again—it all came back to him.

As did the anger.

* * *

“So this is where he took the plunge?”

Tony stared over the ledge. Caution tape covered the window, but they had yet to seal it. Glitter from the shattered window embedded into the floor. The crew only picked up the bigger pieces of the broken glasses.

“Take a step back, Stark,” Agent Ross ordered. “Don’t need you falling to your death.”

Tony moved a step back, looking back out the empty space to the streets below. It was quite the fall. No human would survive. Then again, Deadpool was not human.

Once May got Peter off the floor and assured everyone that she got it covered, Tony received a call from Agent Ross. The agent needed him to come down to the crime scene. Tony told him he would be there soon, but to his dismay, he did not come alone to Manhattan.

Captain America joined beside him, eyebrows furrowed deep in puzzlement. “He’s not all there, is he?”

“What gave you that idea?” Tony remarked and he twisted to look back at Agent Ross.

There were a handful of CSIs of the EHU surveying the room. Agent Ross’s team was crime-dusting the entire office. Placards circled the drying blood of Norman Osborn. He was medically evacuated to Mount Sinai and from what Tony heard so far, the man was in critical condition. Not dead yet, but Tony had his fingers crossed.

Agent Ross stood beside a man dwindling with a biometric lock on Osborn’s desk. He had been at it for hours, but Agent Ross refused Tony’s assistance.

“You are not certified to do so,” Agent Ross told him. “We need to do it right to ensure it can be used as evidence in court.”

So, Tony waited on the incompetent to hack through the biometric system that would only take him five minutes. He circled, bored and impatient. Agent Ross called them in, asking for assistance. Yet, when he offered to hack into Norman’s super-secret safe, he was denied and told to shut-up.

“Is he done yet?” Tony inquired again as he lolled around the room.

Agent Ross glared. “Stop asking,” he said, briefly before squatting down next to the technician and asking him. The technician responded with “Shortly.”

Steve took in the scene, staring at the blood that soaked into the rug. “How many shots were fired?”

“Three,” Agent Ross answered.

“Overkill.”

“Wanted the guy dead,” Agent Ross supposed. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t died yet.”

“Is it?” Tony questioned to which Steve frowned at him.

Agent Ross merely shrugged. “So, um… how’s Peter? He doing okay?”

“Not well,” Steve answered, “but it was expected. He… he needs time.”

“Which is why I sent him and his hot aunt off,” Tony added onto Steve's response. “Jetted them out of the country until this whole thing blows over.”

“That might take a few years,” Agent Ross said. “You’re going to make them disappear that long?”

“Oh, God—no,” Tony said. “Just for a month when the news dies down about it. What? I’m not going to let that kid stay on while the media has a field day. No… he needs to be out of here when this goes down. Somewhere away from all the ruckus this thing will cause. Trust me on it. It’s not fun trying to mourn over a loss with cameras in your face and people shouting at you.”

Agent Ross tilted his head in agreement. “Yeah, probably better for him to be far away from this as possible at the moment.”

In the next second, the technician called out to them. “Got it, sir,” he said, seemingly proud of himself on the accomplishment.

Tony scoffed and Rogers shot him another look. Agent Ross went to the technician’s side, telling him to be careful. A forensic photographer came, snapping shots as Agent Ross carefully opened the drawer. Can’t be too careful. After all, Norman Osborn was a crazed psychopath.

Drawer opened, Agent Ross peeked inside. “All right,” he said, reaching his gloved hand into the drawer to pull out a stack of folders and a laptop. “What do we have here?”

Tony arched his brows at the laptop, interested. “Here… give me that.”

Agent Ross moved it out of Tony’s grasp. “Nice try, Stark,” he said. “You’re not touching it. Not without gloves on either.”

Tony rolled his eyes, marching over to where they had the box of blue, latex gloves. He grabbed a pair and put them on, before marching back to the desk. “Gloves are on,” he said. “Now—give me the laptop.”

“After Mr. Rutch clears it,” Agent Ross said, the laptop already in the technician’s hands.

Tony rolled his eyes, flippant as he huffed. “Why the hell did you bring us down here if we can’t touch anything?”

“Because once we find evidence, I need you to… to…”

Agent Ross stopped talking. He had a file in his hand, opened, and he was shifting through paper after paper. Face scrunched, puzzled at what he saw. He kept flipping through, ignoring Tony.

“Hey!” Tony snapped at Agent Ross. “Big E! You wanna share something with the class?”

Agent Ross didn’t look up from the file. “They’re drawings. All of them.”

Tony and Steve shared a look. “Drawings?” Tony arched an inquisitive brow. “Of what?”

“Of nonsense. Of people. Of…” Agent Ross lifted one of the paper up to them. “Of the two of you.”

Of them? Tony yanked the paper out of Agent Ross’s hand. He saw an array of scribbles and lots of color. Red, blue, yellow, green and purple. Color upon color. Figures in crude depiction of someone with poor hand coordination. Yet, Tony could make out the overall theme. It was the Avengers. In the middle of the Battle of New York.

Steve looked over his shoulder. “Peter drew this.”

“How do you know?” Tony assumed a kid drew it, but Steve sounded confident in his statement.

Steve pointed to the corner. Right there, in uneven lettering, spelled out Peter Parker. Dated May 8, 2012. Peter had to be ten or eleven when he drew it. Perhaps drawing what he saw from his window that day, watching creatures and people fly around and knocking down skyscrapers. He was just a kid, depicting the wonder and horror of the new world. A human kid with big dreams and full of innocence, unaware of the future he was heading straight into. 

Tony sighed, brushing a finger over the Iron Man drawing flying around the skyscrapers. His fingertips traced the grooves of the crayons. It wasn’t a copy. It was the original piece.

“Is the file full of drawings?” Tony asked Agent Ross.

Agent Ross nodded. “Yeah.”

“Are they the originals?”

He checked. “Appears so.”

Tony blew out a huff of heated air. “Son of a bitch,” he growled. “He stole these from their home.”

“Ross probably gave them to him,” Steve theorized, which Tony didn’t doubt. “What do the other files contain?”

Agent Ross put the folder down and picked up another to examine. “Uh… this one appears to be tests. Grades. Papers… etc.,” Agent Ross reached for another file. “This one is… photographs. Not that many though.”

Tony’s stomach churned. Drawings, papers and photographs of Peter’s life were coveted by a madman with grand delusions! It sickened Tony to the point he wanted to vomit. That man had been living among the world so freely when deep in his office, he stalked a teenager. It wasn’t right. It was horrific and Tony prayed that Norman Osborn didn’t survive. If only to keep Peter permanently safe from that man.

Now, he definitely needed to know what was on that laptop. Tony pressed the Avengers’ drawing into Steve’s hand and went up to Mr. Rutch. “Up,” he ordered. “I’m taking over.”

Mr. Rutch, his red-haired buzz cut, sharp nose and freckled face stared right up at Tony. “I haven’t finished…”

“And you never will,” Tony answered and he tipped the man’s chair, spilling Mr. Rutch to the floor. “Thanks.”

“Stark!” Agent Ross shouted as Steve also yelled, “Tony!”

Tony didn’t give a damn. Mr. Rutch was fine on the floor anyway. He didn't fall into any blood. “You just hired me to be a consultant,” he told Agent Ross. “Thanks for the offer. I fully accept. Now—give me a second.”

He took over the hacking. It was easy. Norman wasn’t too secured on the laptop. Must have though his biometric lock would keep the laptop from falling into the wrong (right) hands. Little did he ever believe Tony would be in his home office, hacking into the very foundation of the man’s empire.

Joke was on him.

As promised, Tony hacked into the laptop with minimum effort. A minute hadn’t even passed since he pushed Mr. Rutch out of the seat. “Like that, we are live,” he announced to the team behind him. He scanned the screen, searching for anything that stood out. “What are you hiding in here?” he muttered, checking the programs. 

“Open the last item he had,” Agent Ross ordered.

“I was about to do that,” Tony grunted over his shoulder. He dropped the arrow to the electronic files. The latest one opened.

He clicked and it opened, revealing a list of recorded videos with numerical titles. Nothing descriptive. Could be anything. 

Agent Ross leaned over Tony’s shoulder. “Interesting,” he muttered. “Maybe they’re videos of his illegal experimentation?”

“Maybe.”

“Play the first one,” Steve suggested.

Tony did. He clicked on the video link and the wall to their right shuddered. Lots of people jumped in fright at the sudden change and Tony, Steve and Agent Ross directed their attention to the wall as it parted to reveal a hidden screen. A bright light emitted on the screen, blinding them for a few second until it was filled with color and an image took form.

The picture suddenly moved. 

_A little boy with soft curls stood by a coffee table. Paper and crayons littered the table, but it didn’t seem to matter. The little boy was coloring furiously, filling in an outline image of a vehicle of some sort in blue crayon._

_“Peter? You wanna tell me what you’re drawing?”_

Tony swore his heart dropped out of him. Of course! The boy looked exactly like Peter. Younger version, obviously, with a toothy grin and baby-cheeks that have yet to sharpen from his growth spurt. He must be around… two? Or three years of age? Not older than five.

_“Imma drawin’ a tank,” Peter said. His voice squeaky and loud. Like any toddler. “Like the soldier.”_

_“You mean Captain America?”_

Tony shot a look to Steve. The man’s eyes diverted down for brief second and his jawline tightened, but nothing else. He looked back to the screen.

_Peter pressed the blue crayon hard onto the paper. “Yeah… Daddy’s soldier from the stories.”_

Peter did say his father and uncle admired Captain America. Tony shouldn’t be surprised that Peter grew up hearing the stories. It still rubbed his ego the wrong way though.

_The sound of a door opening drew Peter’s attention away._

_“Who’s that?” said the woman_ (Tony assumed it was his mother. Didn’t sound like May Parker at all) _“Who’s at the door?”_

_Peter’s face broke into an excited expression. His lips pulled back into a goofy, toothy smile as he abandoned his crayons and ran. The camera followed, watching Peter’s little legs kick behind him and his arms pumping as he ran down the hallway._

_“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”_

_Down at the end stood a man. He had a briefcase in his hand, but when Peter got closer, he dropped it. “There’s my boy!” the man exclaimed as he suddenly scooped Peter right off his feet, spinning him in a circle, before settling Peter on his hip. “Wow! Did you grow again? This morning you were my little boy. What’s going on here?”_

There was no denying that Peter was Richard’s son. Peter looked exactly like Richard. Brown hair with a touch of wavy locks. Brown eyes. And even the way they smiled was the same. The only thing different between the two was the statue. Richard was broad shoulder. Not big, but definitely not the skinny frame that his son is.

_Richard Parker looked at the camera. “Did you sprinkle Miracle-Grow in his milk?”_

_“He’s eager to grow up and be like you.”_

_Richard Parker laughed and Peter, in his father’s arms, smiled brightly at him._

The screen went dark. Richard’s laughter echoed into silence and Peter’s face blurred out. The room went quiet. Everyone’s eyes were on the empty wall.

Tony didn’t know what to say. There were a lot of questions bombarding him. All wanting answers, but the shock of what he watched kept him in a stupor. It had to be the same for Steve and Agent Ross because neither of them said anything either.

Jesus Christ. Home-videos. Norman Osborn fucking stole home-videos of Peter…  _and watched them_.

The wall flickered again. Something was happening. Tony looked back to the laptop. The menu went to the next video in line. The speakers sparked alive and a new image was captured to show them another version of Peter.

The two-year old was gone. Replaced with an older one. Seven. Maybe eight. Could be nine for all Tony could tell. He didn’t hang around that many kids to notice the difference.

_Peter was dressed in peasant garb. He stood in the middle of what looked to be a living room. A grey-blue, velvet couch behind him along with a television set on an oak entertainment cabinet. A red chair could be seen as well, along with a collection of trinkets like a blue pot and books._

Holy shit. Tony recognized the living room. It was the Parker’s living room. In Queens. The one that belonged to May and Ben Parker. The one where he officially met Peter Parker. But, it had to be some years ago. They really never changed their furniture since then?

_“Okay, Petey,” said a man’s voice. It didn’t sound like Richard’s more lively tone. It was kind and gentle. Encouraging. Nonetheless it was a man’s voice. “You wanna go over your lines?”_

_Peter shook his head._

_“Come on,” said a voice that sounded like May. “You have to say it in front of a whole audience tomorrow.”_

_“I don’t wanna,” Peter whined._

_“Here—” said the man and the camera got a little shaking as it switched hands. The man appeared on screen, dressed in jeans and a blue sweater with red-plaid sticking out from underneath. “What if I say them with you? Huh? Will you say them with me?”_

_Peter rubbed his eye before nodding. “If you do it with me, Uncle Ben.”_

So that was Uncle Ben. Should have known. He looked like Richard. Same built. Same colored hair. A slightly narrower face, but kind. Like he doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body.

_Peter waited for Uncle Ben to give the signal to begin. Together, they recited, “Yes. And he kidnapped Tiger Lily!”_

_Clapping could be heard in the background along with small hoots. Peter wasn’t a peasant. He was a Lost Boy. Uncle Ben clapped Peter’s shoulder and gave him a big grin._

_“You did great, kiddo! That was easy, right?” Uncle Ben said, but Peter shyly shrugged. “You’re going to do fine. Don’t worry. Your aunt and I will always be proud of ya.”_

Until he died, Tony believed Uncle Ben was proud of Peter. He could see it in the man’s eyes that Peter was everything.

Tony sat in the chair, white knuckled form clenching his fist too hard. His jaw hurt too, gritting his teeth in his effort to not explode. Fucking Norman! He watched these videos. All these videos of Peter with his family. With his parents! The very people Norman had assassinated. It was sickening. The way the man ruined Peter’s life and then tried to covet him like a creation of his own.

A hand set on Tony’s finger and he swung around to snap, but saw it was Steve. He looked just as grim as he felt.

“Stop the recording,” he told Tony.

Tony forgot that the videos were on a loop. Present on the screen was an infant, resting in the crooks of his mother’s arms. Peter looked incredibly tiny and very pink. His mother, Mary, shared a sweet, but exhausted smile at the camera. Peter had her nose.

Tony bent over the laptop and got to work, shutting down the screen and imaging. The video flickered off and the wall went back to being the simple wood wall it was. A hush fell over the forensic team before the scuttled back to work, leaving Tony, Steve and Agent Ross handle the mess of their discovery.

“That was…” Agent Ross heaved a sigh. “That was not good.”

“Really?” Tony said, curt. “I thought it was more along the lines of being sadistically disturbing. But I guess ‘not good’ sums it up as well.”

Agent Ross looked crossed. “I’m not in the mood—”

“Neither am I!” he fired back, too damn tired of everyone not doing enough. Those videos were proofs that they let Norman roam free for far too long. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m done.”

Tony shot up from his chair, shoving it far away from him that Steve quickly dodged it. Agent Ross yelled at him, but he didn’t listen. Steve shouted for him to come back, but Tony didn’t return. He had somewhere else to be. Somewhere he needed to be.

* * *

Tony glared down at the villain. Some would say he was being melodramatic, but after everything he saw, he begged to differ. Norman Osborn wasn’t human. He was a monster.

Even now, unconscious in a medical cot with tubes down his throat and out of his arms, he remained a monster in Tony’s eyes. Tony held no doubt the man was just as dangerous alive as he was in his comatose state.

Tony watched by his position at the door. He sent the guards away. Told them Iron Man could handle a comatose man. They gave no objection and left Tony with Osborn. 

A vexation burned within him, starting from the bottom and rising up along his spine. It was wrong and twisted and it kept burning. Tony knew he was intoxicated on something far deadlier than alcohol. The longer he glared at Osborn, the stronger the desire to shake that man. Yell with all his fire at him. To release a blast from his gauntlet right into the man's chest. It was all Tony wanted to do. Blast the man apart. 

“Don’t do it, Tones.”

Tony whipped his head around and saw Rhodey right behind him.

“Who called?” Tony asked. He bet it was Big E. He would have ratted him out.

“Cap called Pepper. She called me,” Rhodey answered. “And I came.” He followed Tony into the room, watching Tony with a cautious warning. “I know you’re mad—”

Tony huffed out a deriding scoff. “Mad? Oh—I’m not mad. Not at all,” he said, moving to the opposite side of the room, away from Rhodey. “I’m fucking pissed!”

“I know. I know.”

Rhodey said it to calm him down, but it only irritated him more. Tony shook his head, feeling his insides boil from the rising fury. He drew closer to the cot, stuffing his knuckles deep into his pockets. Best to keep them in than out.

His friend inched forward, cautious as to not provoke. “He can’t hurt Peter anymore.”

“He already did enough."

Tony frustratingly wiped his hands down his face. "He won’t stop,” he commented. “He'll keep coming after the kid."

“Why? He'll be in prison or... in this vegetative state," Rhodey noted Osborn's condition. "He can't do anything to Peter.”

“Doesn't matter," Tony remarked. "If he can't have the kid, no one else can. Hell—why do you think he tried to assassinate me?”

The documents Steve and the team retrieved from Weasel revealed that Osborn paid for the Taskmaster’s services to hire an assassin to murder him. Taskmaster partnered Osborn with Tombstone, all in the effort to eliminate him from Peter’s life.

Rhodes quietly resigned. “Yeah… I know. I read the transcripts,” he said, graved. And yet, his focus was hard on Tony, “and I know what you’re thinking.”

“So do I.”

“Don’t,” Rhodey warned.

Tony’s eyes burned. Jaw clenched. “You didn’t see what Norman had.”

“Cap told me.”

“You didn’t  _see_ it.”

“No, I didn’t,” Rhodey agreed, “but… you can’t go all  _Avenger_  on him.”

Tony wanted to. God help him, he wanted to beat the living shit out of Norman Osborn. He was a bit envious that Deadpool beat him to the punch.

He loomed over Osborn. He remembered when it was the other way around. Him on the concrete steps, bleeding out and seeing Norman’s sneer. Now, Norman wasted away with Tony triumphantly standing over him. But it didn’t feel like a victory. In a way, Norman won. He still got to the Parkers. Hurt them and ruined their son. Destroyed a good family.

Tony inhaled his fury. “I want him to die.”

Rhodey looked at him. He said nothing. Maybe in shock. Maybe appalled. Probably both.

Tony didn’t care. “I don’t care if it’s wrong to think that or even to say it,” he said, alight in a new rage. “I don’t want Osborn around to be a threat.”

"You shouldn't  _wish_  for someone to die," Rhodey reproached him. 

“Not someone," Tony jerked his head to Osborn. "Him.”

That didn't soften Rhodey's stern glower. “He has a kid, Tony.”

“So do I!”

His friend shut his mouth. A shade of disappointment as Rhodey shook his head, but he didn't offer a counter-argument. What could he say? All of this was a tangled mess of tragedy. There were no happy endings for anyone. 

There was a commotion outside. Tony and Rhodey looked to each other, wondering what fresh hell was this. Before they strode to the door to check, it burst opened.

“Dad!”

A skinny kid with pale complexion and hair falling over his eyes staggered in. He reeked of teenage stereotypes. Hell—the kid reminded Tony of his worst days. It was obvious the kid spent his night with a six-pack and an ashtray. His once nice clothes were rumpled and his tie was gone along with his jacket. The kid kept running his shaky hands through his hair, making it messier every second.

Harry stumbled to a stop, gasping as he took in the scene of his father. “Dad?”

Tony hurried away from the cot. He whipped out his sunglasses and shielded his eyes. Time to go. He slipped away, moving for door. The kid stayed still, gaping at his father’s form. Eyebrows furrowed deep, an array of befuddled emotions filtered through the kid’s already hazy eyes. When Tony drew near, the kid's eyes shifted to him.

Tony froze. Struck down by the simple look of a kid. It almost reminded him of the moment with Peter after the Ferry incident. The pained and confusion and sadness—it was all there in the kid’s irises. Tony opened his mouth to speak. Condolences or something along those lines, but nothing came. Second time in his life, he had nothing. He couldn’t lie to the kid and say he was sorry. He couldn’t act penitent because he wasn’t. Nothing he would say would be true and Tony knew the kid would know.

So, he closed sealed his lips together. He shook his head and walked away. Straight out of the door and down the corridor, leaving with Rhodey chasing after him.

“What the hell was that?” Rhodey admonished him. “You could have said something!”

Tony shrugged. “The kid would know I was lying.”

“So? Lie!” Rhodey shouted. “That kid might lose his last parent! You should have at least told him you were sorry.”

Tony stopped and spun to his oldest friend. “Trust me on this, Rhodey,” he said. “That kid didn’t want to hear anything I gotta say. The lie or truth. I did the decent thing and left.”

Rhodes let out indignant snort as they restarted their stroll through the hospital. “You mean the easiest thing for you to do.”

Tony slowly shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand, Rhodey,” he said and they entered the parking garage. “You had a decent upbringing with wonderful parents. Me and Osborn’s kid… trust me. Better to be left alone than hear a bunch of bullshit.”

He walked away from his friend and got into his car. Rhodey crossed his arms, watching him with such disapproval. “You could have said something,” he insisted. “Anything.”

Agreed, Tony could have said anything, but none of it would matter to Harry Osborn.

Rhodey blew up a puff of air in distress. “The kid’s going to be messed up,” he said. “Seeing his dad like that… seeing _you_ there.”

Tony got the hint. Osborn’s kid saw him by his father’s bed. Only one interpretation could be made from that kid’s mental state.

He sagged in the seat, dropping his head against the headrest. “He’s an Osborn,” he said. “He was fucked the minute he was Norman’s son. Nothing I do or say will help.

“As for seeing me there,” Tony turned the keys and the engine purred, “the kid already knew.”

Rhodey’s eyebrows furrowed. “Already knew what?”

“That I blame Norman for all of this.”


	32. Michelle Jones II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!  
> The following content contains elements that are not suitable for some readers.  
> Reader discretion is advised.

_Bzzzzzz… Bzzzzzz… Bzzzzzzz…_

Michelle aggressively slapped at her nightstand, desperate to kill the noise. Her palm felt the cool plastic of her phone case, the vibrations shaking her nightstand that it almost sounded like a woodpecker. She kept smashing her hand on her phone, but it wouldn’t stop.

Michelle flopped in her bed, craning her neck up to see who was the responsible party for calling her at an ungodly hour. She squinted at the screen and saw Peter’s cute face lit up.

She sat up, snatching her phone and answered the call. “Peter?”

_“Sorry.”_

“For what?”

_“Calling you. Now. At this time.”_

Something sounded different. His voice… it was nasally. Like he had been crying. “Are you okay?”

She heard a deep, ragged breath from his end. _“No.”_

“What’s wrong?” she asked, turning on her bedside lamp. What could have happened since they left the dance?

She heard nothing for a minute. Only heavy breathing of a person trying to not cry. _“I’m sorry.”_

“Stop saying sorry!” Michelle became nervous. What was happening? “Peter—where are you? Are you with Ned?”

_“No, I’m not with Ned. I… I’m leaving New York. Again.”_

Michelle’s heart dropped. “What?” she sat up, clutching her phone. “Why?”

_“Mr. Osborn—”_

“What about that creep?” Michelle never liked Norman Osborn. Even without knowing anything about the man, it only took Michelle a single glimpse to know the CEO of Oscorp was a jackass. His treatment to his son alone was enough to warrant the title douche.

However, she didn’t expect him to be labeled a murderer too.

_“He killed my parents.”_

Michelle sat in her bed. She listened to every single word Peter told her. She clutched the phone, staring straight ahead as she comprehended what Peter said. At first, she couldn’t believe it, but the more Peter talked, the more it became clear. It made a lot of sense. Norman’s persistent talks in regards to Peter, his narrowed focus on him during dinner and his bitterness when Peter wasn’t coming to the basketball game. It all added up.

She assumed it was because of his status as a superhero, but it was far darker than anyone suspected. Michelle felt faint listening to Peter unravel the horrible truth of his past.

“Peter…” She wasn’t even sure what to say to him. Only his name, hoping it was enough to convey her sympathies for him.

She heard him sniffle. _“I need you to do me a favor,”_ he said after a moment. _“If you can.”_

“Anything.” She meant it too.

“ _I need you and Ned to check on Harry_.”

The phone nearly slipped out of her hand. She forgotten about Harry. Not purposefully. Her first thoughts were of Peter and his feelings about the devastating reveal. Yet, of course Peter would remember Harry. He too would be hurting to know his own father was a worse monster than he thought.

Peter snuffled loudly and let out an unsteady breath. _“I need to make sure he’s okay,”_ he said. _“I-I tried calling him. He’s not answering. I just… I need him to know I don’t blame him.”_

“Okay.”

_“I don’t blame him.”_

“I know.”

She waited as Peter gathered his bearings again. _“I’m sorry, MJ,”_ he murmured through the phone. “ _I—I… I don’t know what to do._ ”

Michelle wish she could do more than simply speak on the phone. She wasn’t much of an affectionate person, but she could at least hold his hand, stand by his side and show she’s with him.

She needed to say something though. Something to let him know she heard him. “Peter—”

She was cut off by a muffle of noises in the background. Another voice was talking, someone muttering to Peter. She couldn’t quite hear the person as a whirling sound disrupted the words.

“ _Hey, um, I have to get going_ ,” Peter’s voice returned.

“Where're you going?” she asked, remembering he said he was leaving New York again. And her.

 _“A safe house,”_ Peter answered and he let out a long groan. _“I’m so tired of it all.”_

Michelle understood. To be constantly under a microscope wasn't a prized life. The invasive public eye and the strenuous lengths to avoid it all would drag anyone down.

"When are you coming back?" she asked.

_"I don't know, but not for long though. I want to be home.”_

Michelle imagined Peter facing up against the Avengers, fighting to return home. But what was home for him? The Compound? Queens? … her?

“Okay,” she uttered. “Just… don’t disappear.”

 _“I’ll come back,"_ There was a brief pause. _“I promise.”_

And Michelle wrapped that promise around her heart. “Be safe and… Peter?” she said, knowing that despite all the racket going on in the background at his end, he could still hear her, “I’m here for you. Always.”

She couldn’t see him, but from the way his voice sounded lighter, she pictured Peter smiling. Just a little smile. _“Thanks, MJ,”_ _he said._

The sound in the background grew louder. Like an engine was ready to take off. _“I have to go, but… please—Harry’s going to need you guys. Make sure—“_

“I know,” Michelle said, not wishing Peter to go. “We will.”

 _“Bye, MJ._ ”

“Bye.”

Michelle didn’t hang-up right away. She noticed neither did Peter. She thought she could hear his breaths, breathing in over the speaker and wondered if he heard her breaths too. Probably.

It wouldn’t be another minute before Michelle heard the line go dead.

* * *

The morning news was explosive. Almost every channel, newspaper and social media concentrated on the arrest and shooting of Norman Osborn. Every news anchor, journalist, and blogger focused on the crazy scene revolving around Osborn. Forget the Accords. Forget political disarray. Hell—forget climate change! The biggest news piece of the decade had everyone up in arms and gossiping nonstop. 

Michelle went over to Ned's house right away. Her parents initially forbid it. Her brothers already called and told their parents that she was all over social media. Apparently, her dance with Peter made it onto Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter and—now—on television screens. Her parents freaked and didn't want her out of the house. Out of sight, out of mind, was her parents' motto. It was not Michelle's, so she snuck out her window and went on her way to Ned's house.

Ned was downtrodden. He looked as depressed as he was when Peter first went away. He didn't even change out of his pajamas when he let her inside their dark home. His mother pulled the blinds, blocking any journalist's attempts to catch a story from them. 

Ned sat on his bed, head in his hands. "I can't believe it. I just can't."

“Have you tried calling Harry?”

Ned nodded. "Yeah. I did—I mean, I tried. He didn't answer."

Harry hadn't answered her calls or messages either. "Probably trying to process everything that has happened."

Ned snapped his head. "Do you think this is what he meant? When he had to leave for that family emergency?"

Michelle pondered. "Possibly. Probably."

Ned sunk further into the mattress, curling his shoulders over and almost looking like a ball. "I should have followed him. I should have made sure he was okay. The other night... when he told me... God! I didn't even ask what—"

"Hey!" She snatched his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. "It's not your fault. You didn't know! None of us knew."

Yet her friend remained distress. Poor Ned. Always taking things to heart, thinking of all the ways he could have done better. If anyone could have done better, it would be her. Michelle didn't even realize Harry left until Ned told her. She honestly should have known something was up when Harry didn't text her at night like he always did. But, again, she didn't noticed. 

If the news wasn't favorable to Norman Osborn, it didn't shine a good light on Harry. People questioned whether Harry knew about his father's insanity and obsession with the famed child-superhero. They even wondered if Harry was in on it the whole time, which Michelle found ridiculous! How would Harry be responsible for killing the Parkers when he was 5 years old? Yet, ignorant reporters doubted Harry's and Peter's friendship, some even suggesting that Harry only befriended Peter on his father's order. If any of them ever met Harry, they would know he would never follow his father's orders. 

News outlets kept making links, connecting all sorts of mere coincidences between Harry and Peter (although, Michelle figured that Norman put Harry up in Midtown for the sole purpose to find any tidbits on Peter's whereabouts at the time, but again, she doubted Harry knew about it). It frustrated her that people were buying such tabloid nonsense! Particularly that scathing, uptight, blonde-bimbo Christine Everhart.

It only got worse the next few days. A few reporters staked out her house, irritating her father to the point he called the police. Cop cars pulled up and escorted the reporters away from their premise, but not off their block. An hour later, someone in a black SUV arrived, knocking on their door. He was a member of the Avengers’ security detail, sent over to them by Stark's orders, to discuss security and privacy. Basically, don't say anything and keep doors locked.

And, one more thing. The official handed Michelle a phone. "Mr. Stark asked that you do not lose this," he said. "Better to break it than lose it. Although he asks to not do either."

Michelle stared at it. It was a regular mobile phone to her. A bit fancier than her iPhone, but still a phone. "Jeez, thanks, but I already have a phone," she said, handing it back to him. "I don't need it."

The official smiled, like her stubbornness was adorable rather than serious. "It's a Starkphone," he said. "It gives you a certain amount of... let's say, privacy. You can talk to anyone on the phone without being overheard by anyone else."

Michelle looked back down at the phone in realization. She turned it on and checked the list of contacts. Three names and numbers. Peter Parker. May Parker. And, emergency only. Michelle scrunched her nose, pondering the emergency contact briefly. She doubted it was the simple 9-1-1. Probably an Avengers emergency. 

Her parents kept talking, asking question after question with the man. The official was polite and patient, answering all their questions with seriousness despite the absurdity of her parents' questions. 

"The press has been made fully aware to not to harass your family," the official said. "Mr. Stark and company will file charges against any person or organization that goes after you or the Leeds' family."

With that securement, the official departed and Michelle went to her room. She fiddled with the phone, debating whether to contact Peter or not. After all, she hasn't kept her promise. She hadn't reached Harry. 

Her trip to Wakanda was coming up too. With all the controversy, Michelle wanted to cancel it. Too much was happening at home that needed her attention. Her parents thought otherwise. Perfect time to go, they claimed. Get out of the city and away from the attention. Michelle argued against it. She claimed her friends needed her, but her parents only allowed a two day extension on the departure. No more.

She worried of her chances of ever getting a hold of Harry. The news persisted in spewing lies about him and his friendship with Peter. Hatred grew for the Osborn family. Protests occurred outside Oscorp to the point employees stopped going to work until they received police escort into the building.

Norman’s condition remained a mystery. All anyone reported was that he was in critical condition. A few people have tried to locate the hospital he was treated, but no one could pinpoint the evil reincarnated individual. Of course, they all knew former Secretary Ross’s location. He was promptly arrested and charged for child endangerment, conspiracy, bribery, kidnapping, extortions, peonage, and more that Michelle didn’t care to get into. All she knew was that the former Secretary probably wished he didn’t survive his home invasion a few months back.

In fact, she wondered if Norman Osborn preferred to be dead rather than return to life only to be thrown in jail for the rest of his life, his name and reputation ruined.

In any case, the people truly hurting from this ordeal were Peter and Harry. Those were the only two people Michelle was concerned about and drew all her focus on. If only Harry would answer his goddamn messages!

* * *

Harry finally reached out. He texted back to Ned, who immediately called Michelle. Harry was staying at the Mark Hotel. More like hiding out, according to Harry. Nonetheless, he invited them both to his room and that was where they found themselves that very afternoon.

The two of them arrived at the lobby together, dressed in their normal day clothes that highly offended the employees and visitors alike. She was certain the desk service wanted to escort them off until they listed the secret name.

Only then did they grudgingly allowed them access to the elevator with the room number. They stood patiently and quietly, both busy thinking what to say upon seeing their friend. The chimed rang and the doors opened for them to leave. They didn’t have to search the door as an officer stood right outside one particular hotel door. That was enough for them to know who resided on the other side.

The security officer spotted them and knocked, addressing to the person on the other side that young Mr. Osborn’s friends have arrived. Unlocked, Michelle and Ned entered to find another adult in the room, greeting them. He led them through the suite, coming to another closed door and telling Harry his friends were here.

The door immediately opened and Michelle saw a frail boy with unkempt hair falling across his forehead. Rings underneath his vivid eyes, wide and active as he glanced between her and Ned. He jerked his head, sweeping aside to make room for them to enter.

“You guys made it,” Harry said as Ned stepped through and Michelle followed.

A whiff of alcohol and staleness stayed pungent in the room. The exact scent of despair and loathing. Harry himself looked untidy as his hotel room. Clothes stuffed in a trunk or thrown in the open closet. Newspapers spewed on the table and some fallen to the floor in wrinkled garbage. Dirty plates from breakfast and lunch were discarded and left to be used as paperweights.

For an expensive hotel, the suite resembled a wasted studio. Not that Michelle cared, but it showed how far Harry fell from the edge.

Harry closed the door and moved passed them. “Welcome to my humble abode!” he wildly gestured to the dirty suite. “Take a seat! Anywhere! You want something? I got everything. Vodka, rum, Jack Daniels… anything in the mini bar.”

Michelle shook her head as she took a seat on a lone ottoman. “Nah… beer is disgusting.”

“So… wine then?” Harry remarked before he pointed to Ned. “You gotta try a Coke and rum, buddy. You’ll love them. Hold on.”

Harry zipped right to the mini-refrigerator, digging through the ice-box to pull out miniature bottles of alcohol.

Michelle and Ned glanced to one another, troubled. “Ah, nah, dude,” Ned called to stop Harry. “I’m not, um, thirsty.”

“Really? This is good stuff.” Harry waved the little bottles up in the air.

“Um… yeah, I’m sure,” Ned responded. “Besides, pretty sure my parents will kill me if I come back smelling like alcohol.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders and returned to the sitting area, jumping over the side and flopping on the couch with a bounce. He had a Heineken in his hand, relaxed as he took in his friends. Did the officials outside not give a damn he was illegally drinking?

“So—why’re you here?” Harry started as he cracked open his beer.

Michelle’s brows cocked up, side-glancing at Ned. Was it not obvious why they came over? “We wanted to see how you were doing,” she answered. “With everything happening… seemed like you need friends.”

Harry scrutinized his eyes, peering at her like her words were lies. “Uh-huh,” he said and he took a long gulp of his beer. “Of course! That’s what friends do.”

He didn’t sound grateful or sincere. He kicked back his legs onto the messy coffee table, tipping back his beer. His eyes blinked, blandly and uninterested. Like they were strangers rather than friends.

Ned shifted nervously in his seat. “How you doing, man?” he started off. The most common question to ask in such stressful situation. “Is, um… how’re you holding up?”

“Pretty good.”

That surprised Ned. And Michelle. Neither expected him to respond with such an answer.

“Good?” Michelle questioned.

Harry nodded. “Yep,” he said with a _pop_.

He said nothing else. Michelle and Ned shared a concerned look. It was abundantly clear that Harry was not in the right place. The state he was living in and his own appearance proved he was at a lost.

Ned cleared his throat. “Oh, well, that’s good,” he mumbled, unsure what to say next. “We were really worried about you. Tried calling and texting. Even Peter tried to get a hold of you.”

“I know.”

Great. Harry was being uncooperative. Not that she entirely blamed him. His life was one big car wreck at the moment. “Seriously, Harry,” she said, hoping to get some kind of response from him. “How are you? Really?”

“I told you.”

“We’ve seen the news and we know it’s just a bunch of BS,” Michelle said, remembering all those journalists spewing lies after lies. “So does Peter. He doesn’t blame you at all for what happened. He wants to make sure you’re okay. We all do. We’re here for you. We want to help.”

Harry didn’t bat an eye at that. “I’m fine,” he said. “Don’t need help. Doing great.”

One look told them that was a lie. It was clear Harry was far worse than he ever was. But, he wouldn’t admit it. Not now and probably never. Pride bullshit.

“How’s, um, your father doing?” Ned asked, tentatively as it was most likely a sore topic. “He’s recovering then?”

Harry looked surprised. “Oh—him?” he said, casual. “He’s dead.”

“What?” Michelle and Ned said together.

Harry checked the clock on the nightstand. “Yeah, died ten minutes before you came,” he said, nonchalant about the dire revelation. “Finally—the bastard should have died at the penthouse, but damn… he wanted to fucking string everyone along with him.” He crossed his ankles on the littered coffee table. “I’m sure it will reach the news soon though. Everyone around the world will know that the great Norman Osborn is dead.”

Michelle gaped at Harry. She knew he hated his father, but it was still his father. There had to be some kind of love or respect. “Harry… I’m so sorry.”

“Why? I’m happy he’s dead.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Sure I do,” Harry said.

“He was your father though,” Ned said, shocked that Harry wasn’t even depressed of his father’s passing. “It still sucks. To lose your dad.”

Harry’s eyes glowed. “Dad? Funny. The man never seemed to believe I was his son,” he said, his tone not humorous at all. “On the contrary, I’m nothing more than a squatter to him.”

“That’s not true.”

Harry smiled devilishly. “Oh, Ned,” he said. “So blindly optimistic about the world. Norman didn’t give a shit about me. He only kept me so that his good name wouldn’t be tarnished. Honestly, I think he secretly believed I wasn’t his son.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Michelle said, not wanting to get into the drama of Norman Osborn. “Your dad may not have been a good parent, but he still considered you his son.”

Harry snickered, finding it all too amusing. “Did you know that there isn’t a single photo of me in his office?”

Michelle did not know that, but Norman didn’t seem to be the sentimental man to even have photographs in his office.

Harry lamented on. “Not a single photo of me,” he said and he took a swing from his beer. “But lord and behold, the police found hordes of photographs and drawings and videos of Peter Parker.”

Wait… _what_?

“Huh?” Michelle replied, confused. “W-What do you mean?”

“Oh? Did that not make it to the news?” Harry sarcastically commented. “Norman kept Peter’s entire life in his office. Had thousands of pictures and videos of him. From when he was a baby to now. What? You didn’t know that?”

No. She didn’t and she knew Ned didn’t either. She wondered if Peter knew about that dark tidbit. All she learned was that Norman was involved in Parkers’ deaths and the kidnapping attempt. Not that he kept a detailed record of Peter.

When she shook her head, Harry scoffed. “Yeah, Norman fucking loved Peter Parker,” he grumbled. “Everyone fucking loves Peter Parker. Boy Wonder. _Spider-man_!”

Michelle thought the air in the room got heavy. The tension elevated and Michelle became guarded. Instincts told her to be ready. Something about the way Harry held himself warned her of an impending burst.

She had to snip this in the bud.

“Who cares?” Michelle tapped Ned’s shoulder to get him to agree. “We don’t care what everyone else thinks. We care about you.”

Harry viciously snorted, his chuckles sounding more like growls. “You’re not a good liar, Michelle.”

She was taken aback. What did that mean? “I’m not lying,” she said. “You’re our friend. We’re here for—”

“You’re _Peter’s_ friends.”

Michelle’s face contorted into deep confusion. “What?”

“We’re your friends too,” added Ned. “Both you and Peter are our friends. We’re here for both of you guys.”

Somehow, that only made Harry’s eyes sharper. “You’re here because of Peter.”

“How are we here for Peter?” Michelle was getting irritated. They have repeatedly told Harry they were here for him. They wanted to know how he was doing. “We’ve been trying to reach you! Wanting to talk to you and see how you’re holding up—”

Harry groaned loudly, rolling his head in exasperation. “Oh, please—you don’t give a damn about me,” he muttered. “You came because Peter asked you to.”

“No—”

Harry laughed, but it was cold. It made Michelle shiver. “Jesus Christ!”

Michelle frowned. She thought she would be dealing with a disheartened teen, but not a drunk-ass boy. She wasn’t in the mood to deal this type of abuse. “Okay, fine. Don’t believe us,” she said and turned to Ned. “I guess we’ll leave then?”

Harry stopped laughing. “Why? Aren’t you here for me?”

“Yeah, but you think otherwise.”

“So—you’re going to run off?” he snarled. “Back to Peter?”

Michelle groaned, tired of Harry speaking about Peter. He’s not here!

“What the hell is your problem?” she asked. “Why are you acting like a jerk? Ned and I came here to see you. To talk to you. And you keep bringing up Peter!” Michelle blew out a whiff of heated breath. “Listen—Peter doesn’t blame you! For any of it. He still considers you his friend—”

“Well, I don’t think of him as my friend.”

Everything came to a screeching halt. Michelle had to take a moment to recover, reviewing what she just heard. “W-What do you mean? You guys are friends.”

Harry’s face went taut. “Peter Parker is not my friend,” he repeated, firmly. “Never was.”

Michelle couldn’t believe it. How many times did they all hang-out? She’s seen Harry and Peter talk to one another, share interests and goof around like any other boys. They went to each other’s homes! Played stupid games and got into fun arguments! They played volleyball and basketball. They geeked over silly things like Star Wars and Lord of the Rings.

How could Harry say Peter was never his friend?

Ned appeared to think the same. “What are you talking about, dude?” he questioned. “We’re all friends!”

“No… you’re all friends,” Harry pointed at them. “You and you and… and Peter! The trio! The Big Three! And me? I’m not one of you guys.”

Seriously? A pity party? This was not how Michelle thought this would go. “You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “We’ll come back when you’re sober.”

“Don’t bother,” Harry grunted. “You don’t have to fucking worry about me. It’s pretty clear that you pick Peter, so… don’t bother coming back.”

Michelle turned sour. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you acting like a douche?”

“I’m calling it as I see it.”

“You’re being a prick.”

Harry only shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s still the truth, right? You’ll always pick Peter’s side before mine.”

“There’re no sides!” Michelle shouted, frustrated that he persisted on the matter. If he kept going, it was certainly going to be true. “Ned and I came to help out a friend, but you’re too drunk and obnoxious to even see that. We want to help and be supportive, but you’re not letting us.”

Harry got up, his legs a bit wobbly, but he stayed balanced. “Don’t bullshit me, Princess,” he snarled. “I fucking know! Okay? I fucking know!”

Michelle was thrown in a loop. She was completely lost as to what Harry ranted. “You know what?” she humored him, although she didn’t really care to stay much longer. It was clear Harry was in no mood for visitors.

“That you fucking love Peter.”

Michelle’s heart skipped, but she kept her face stoic. No outward emotional signs. “You’re drunk.”

Even Ned tried to intervene. “Hey, man… come on,” he said, smoothly. “Let’s tone it down, yeah?”

Harry shook his head, violently. His lips formed a scowl. “Don’t you bullshit me,” he growled at Michelle, ignoring Ned altogether. “Don’t you bullshit me, Princess.”

“Whatever you think—” Michelle started, but Harry’s feral yell shut her silent.

_“I saw you fucking shove your tongue down his throat!”_

Every part of Michelle’s body froze. No one was there. No one was in the hallway. They checked. It was only her and Peter. How in the hell did Harry see them kissing?

“What are you talking about?” came Ned’s questioning voice. Poor Ned didn’t know anything. That meant Peter kept his word. He didn’t tell anyone anything about what happened between them in the school’s hallway.

Harry glared at Michelle. His eyes never leaving her as he spoke. “Yeah—what the fuck am I talking about, _MJ_?”

Something flared within her. The moment she heard Peter’s nickname for her everything came back into her control. She breathed deep through her nose. Her heart burned with a fresh anger at his sneer.

When she didn’t answer, Harry turned back to Ned. “At the dance,” he started to relay the tale. “I saw little, Miss Princess making out with the Prince of Queens.” He took another drink. “Not surprising though, right Neddy? Why wouldn’t even the stubborn Michelle Jones fall for the famous hero? Every other girl wants to drop their panties for him. Why not her?”

Ned flushed red, eyes down to avoid looking at either of them. It was an incredibly awkward and horrifying moment for her. For Ned. Not Harry. He didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything. He only took another drink of his beer, acting chilled despite the aggravating demeanor hinted in his eyes.

“Um… Harry? Maybe you ought to stop drinking,” Ned advised. “You seem a bit drunk.”

That was a nice way of saying it, Michelle thought. Her description would be that he was pissed drunk.

Harry purposefully tipped the beer back and chugged until empty. Real mature.

He leaned over the couch, pupils abuzz. “So? Did you fuck him?” he questioned her. “Show him your pussy?”

Michelle shot to her feet. Glare fixed on Harry with nothing but contempt and disgust, she uttered her last words to him.

“Fuck you.”

No other preamble, she stormed out. Rage pulsed through her veins and nerves. Too enrage to even wait for the officer and helper open the door. Too busy fuming to even hear a word around her. She was wrong about Harry. Her first instincts about him were correct. He was a selfish prick. Another stereotypical, rich teen who thought he deserved the world because of name, money and power.

She thought he might be different though. He came to Midtown, quiet and secluded, with no care to brag about his name. He was considerate of Ned, supportive of him during those trying times. He was a nice person. A bit flippant and obnoxious, but Michelle put up with it because he was there for them. He was kind and smart. He was their friend.

But the moment Peter returned to their lives, he changed. He became conceited, envious and dangerously reckless. He boasted his name, his money and his lifestyle. Nothing that seemingly mattered beforehand until Peter came back. Now, Harry was the exact arrogant asshole Michelle thought he was.

She got to the street. The cold air hitting her in the face hard, making her tears become icicles on her cheeks. She didn’t even realize she was crying. She’s never been so embarrassed in her life. In front of her friend no less.

God! She was so thankful her parents didn’t make her quit the trip to Wakanda. She’s never been so excited to get away from her friends.

“Michelle!”

She turned to see Ned running as fast as he could to her. Cheeks red and breaths ragged from running, but he didn’t quit until he got to her. Panting, he stared up to her as the sweat along his brows cooled.

“Hey… hey,” he said, calmly. “It’s okay.”

She didn’t realize Ned wrapped his arms around her and she rested her head on his shoulder. Tears kept coming down her cheek, chilling her skin. She wished she stopped crying. Stop the sniveling mess, but the more she tried, the more her eyes got watery.

Ned kept her in a warm embrace, saying nothing. He didn’t need to say anything to her. Having him with her was enough to let her know that he was her friend. He wouldn’t abandon her.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Ned said after a long moment. “Harry—he’s hurting. He didn’t mean it.”

Michelle shook her head. Ned may be hopeful, but she knew better to believe the lies hearts told. “He did, Ned. He meant it,” she said through the heartache. “He’s jealous of Peter. Always was.”

Ned rubbed her back as they both ignored the pedestrians that walked around them, annoyed that they took up part of the sidewalk.

“Yeah. I know,” he said with great reluctance. “We’ll get through this. Just like last time.”

Michelle squeezed Ned back, hoping that he was right. 


	33. May Parker III

May stared aimlessly out the windshield of a truck. It was early in the morning. Too early. No sleep at all. She never felt so exhausted in her life with the exception of Ben’s death. It was almost as equivalent to it. Almost.

When she hopped on the plane with her nephew, she had no idea where they jetted off to. Upon arrival, May looked out her window and saw woodlands and long-stretched fields of emptiness. Nothing else.

Except for a truck, parked near the edge of the strip of runway, with a former Avenger standing beside it. Clint Barton waved to May as he walked up to the plane as the door opened to reveal stairs. Guess it was time to get off the plane.

And now they squeezed into Clint’s truck, with May seated in the middle, Clint at the wheel and Peter on her other side. Her nephew hadn’t said a word since the d

May stared aimlessly out the windshield of a truck. It was early in the morning. Too early. No sleep at all. She never felt so exhausted in her life with the exception of Ben’s death. It was almost as equivalent to it. Almost.

When she hopped on the plane with her nephew, she had no idea where they jetted off to. Upon arrival, May looked out her window and saw woodlands and long-stretched fields of emptiness. Nothing else.

Except for a truck, parked near the edge of the strip of runway, with a former Avenger standing beside it. Clint Barton waved to May as he walked up to the plane as the door opened to reveal stairs. Guess it was time to get off the plane.

And now they squeezed into Clint’s truck, with May seated in the middle, Clint at the wheel and Peter on her other side. Her nephew hadn’t said a word since the departed New York. After his one phone call, he kept himself quiet, tucked into a ball and eyes staring straight ahead into an unknown abyss. He remained that way after they debarked. He gave a quick hug to Clint, who was kind and whispered something to her kid, but Peter remained a zombie as he hopped into the truck.

They drove in quiet solitude despite their cramped situation. May wasn’t too bothered by it. It gave her a moment to reflect everything that happened. Or to at least to have some resemblance of peace.

Clint turned off onto a dusty road that went deep into some woodlands. It didn’t surprise her at all for him to live in a cabin. After all, he was good with bows and arrows for a reason.

But, they didn’t slow down. The road kept going and going, until they were out of the woods and into an open field, basked in the purple hue of a morning sunrise. Up ahead, where the dirt road came to an end, was a house and a barn.

May silently admitted she was surprised. She never expected Hawkeye to be a farmer. A hunter—yes. Farmer? Never crossed her mind.

As the truck drew closer to the house, the front door opened. A jolt zapped right through May, almost uncertain if she was hallucinating or not. Yet, the woman walking out to porch steps looked real with shoulder-length brown hair and casual attire of a bohemian blouse and jeans, wrapped up in a bright cardigan against the chilly air.

Clint came to a park and turned the engine off. They arrived.

Yet, May didn’t unbuckle. “Who’s that?” she asked, her arms ready to shield Peter if necessary. Was she another agent? Like Sharon Carter? Or Natasha?

“That would be my wife Laura,” Clint answered as he got out of his truck.

Wife?

Hawkeye was  _married_?! She thought Stark was the only Avenger in a serious relationship.

Peter slipped out of the car as well, snatching his bag from the back before walking to the front of the house where the mysterious wife waited. May followed out, closing the door as she watched Peter go to Laura’s outstretched arms and into her embrace.

So… her nephew knew Laura Barton. Well enough to accept a hug.

“I can take that for you,” Clint’s voice spooked her as he took May’s little suitcase. “Best we get inside.”

May followed Clint as his wife and Peter already disappeared indoors. Again, the house was nothing like she pictured for Hawkeye. It was quaint and homey, very much a country home. The living room was open and spacious, the morning light guiding her through the room. Wooden beams lined the ceiling and pots and pans hooked on the walls. 

Quite a different landscape from Tony Stark's home decor. 

Laura Barton was quietly talking to Peter until she saw May looking at them. "You must be the famous May Parker," Laura smiled and shook May's hand. "I'm Laura Barton. Peter's told us a lot about you."

May glanced at Peter, cheeks warm when she spoke . "Oh, then... I feel awkward," she confessed. "I'm afraid I don't know you at all."

Laura's eyebrows bunched in confusion before she looked to Peter for an explanation.

Peter only apologetically shrugged. "Figured it wasn't my secret to tell."

Laura nodded her head in understanding. "For security purposes, our family is a secret," she explained to May. "You know with Clint’s job as dangerous as it is. Best we keep our personal lives under the radar. Not many people know we are married.”

Like herself.

“I'm sure you and Peter are exhausted," Laura kindly stated, "but if you are up for it, I'm going to make some breakfast. Do you like eggs? Bacon or sausage? Wait... are you vegetarian?”

May shook her head. "Um, no, but breakfast sounds good. Didn't realize I was hungry until you mentioned it."

“Good! I mean, okay," Laura said. "I'll whip up something for all of us. Clint? Honey? You wanna...”

Clint nodded and nudged his head toward the stairs. "I'll show you to your room."

May was going to follow after Peter, but he already disappeared. Again.

She followed Clint up the creaking stairs, going up into the house where she saw more domestic life of Clint Barton. Peeking into a room as they walked passed, she gaped at the girly atmosphere of dolls, teacups and pink bedsheets. 

"You have a daughter?" May uttered, finding it hard to believe that not only was Hawkeye married, but also a father.

Clint glanced back to her. "Yeah, and two boys too,” he replied. “They’re away at their grandparents for a few days. Figured you and Peter can get situated without them running around like crazy.”

They passed a boy’s room with its cluttered belongings and a gigantic basketball star poster covering half of a wall. Peter wasn’t interested in sports. His small physique kept him sidelined and it never took hold. Not like Ben’s interest. Ben loved to play football and basketball. May remembered Ben trying to teach Peter how to dribble a basketball and do a lay-up. Poor Peter couldn’t get the coordination quite right. Not until he became Spider-man.

“Up these last stairs,” Clint said to her as he climbed another short staircase.

They reached the highest peak in the house and May saw that it was the house’s attic. Instead of it being cluttered with antiques and fond memories, it was cleared with a twin bed, nightstand, dresser, and a desk. A storage unit that transformed into a bedroom.

But not any bedroom.

As May quickly scanned the room, she noticed it was tailored to a certain taste. Someone with interests in sciences and fandoms. She inched to the desk and spotted a small picture frame. It was of Peter, sitting on a large tractor with Clint and another boy down below.

May looked from the photograph to the rest of the bedroom.

It was Peter’s bedroom.

Clint dropped the suitcase off to the side. “I know it’s a twin,” he said to May. “We aren't expecting you and Peter to share it. We have a blow-up mattress. It’s comfortable enough. Peter’s slept on it a few nights before we got the bed here. It can fit in this space, but it might be a little tight.”

“So… um,” May struggled to figure out what she wanted to say to the man. “How long were you and, um, Peter… how long was he here with you? I mean, how long did he stay? Here?”

Clint brows twitched up in surprise. “He didn’t tell you?” he said. “Oh—um, six months. Maybe seven. I’ll have to ask Laura for certain.”

“Half a year?”

Clint nodded. “Pretty much,” he said. “This is where he stayed. Guess you can kind of tell. None of my kids would go crazy over—” He peered at the small bookshelf crammed full with thick books that May never read, “ _Brief Answers to the Big Questions._ It’s not really their thing.”

“Peter does enjoy a good Stephan Hawking book,” May noted with a hint of smile. But even her smile was exhausted. Too long of day.

Clint must have realized, because he quickly excused himself. “I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready. You can relax or what not. If you need the bathroom, it’s the second door on your left when you come back to the second floor.”

May thanked him and soon, she was all by herself in the little bedroom. She looked around, wondering if there was any other clues of Peter’s previous existence in the household. She found worksheets with his handwriting scribbling all over the pages. Notes and diagrams that resembled DUMBO, the annoying robot back at their apartment. He built its foundation in this very room. 

For a city boy, he quickly learned to adapt to the country lifestyle.

May wondered where he boy ran off. She looked out the sole window of the attic, seeing the vast farmland with the woodlands near the edge. The rocky road that guided them up to this faraway home. There was a barn not too far away, closed and locked, but she didn't hear any animals. Perhaps Hawkeye was not that type of farmer. 

Despite her exhaustion, she couldn't sleep. All her nerves were too wired and muscles too tense to relax. Best to head downstairs to be with the Bartons. Maybe even find Peter, if he was at all interested in speaking with her. Since she told him the truth, he kept his distance from her and hardly said a word. Resentful for her hand in all the secrecy. 

She hoped he didn't hold onto it for long. 

May walked back down the stairs, coming down to the main landing when she heard the sizzling of pans and the boiling of water coming from the kitchen. It smelled wonderful and May's stomach purred in approval. 

Only Laura was in the kitchen. She busied herself running from stovetop to the toaster, switching toasted slices with fresh ones. 

"You need help?" May walked further into the kitchen as Laura glanced over her shoulder. 

“I got it," Laura replied, "Everything okay upstairs?”

May nodded. "Yeah. I, um, just didn't want to be alone." She looked around, searching. "Do you know where Peter is?"

Laura jabbed her spatula to the window. "He's outside," she answered. "Don't worry though. Clint is with him."

May went to the window and she saw Peter and Clint walking around the grounds. She relaxed a little. At least she knew where Peter was. 

“Here.”

Laura stood beside her, offering a warm mug of coffee to her. May accepted and gave a gracious thank you in return. The warmth between her palms was welcoming. 

"How you doing?" Laura asked, pulling out a chair for May to sit. 

May took the seat. "I'm okay."

Laura gave her a look.

“I mean... I'm not doing great, but I'm still standing," May explained and she took a sip of the coffee. "I'm more worried about Peter.”

“Everyone is," Laura agreed, "but you cannot forget yourself. You are just under the same amount of stress.”

“Some may say differently.”

“You mean people who aren't parents?" Laura remarked as she cut up apples. "Yeah, they would say differently. Any parent knows that when a child bleeds, a parent bleeds.”

May concurred with the sentiment. Her emotions often reflected Peter's mood. If her nephew was sad, May couldn't stop the feeling from enveloping her. When Peter scrapped his knees and palms, crying in pain, May cried with him. When Peter was overjoyed of making into Midtown, May was next to him, jumping up and down with smiles. 

Parents felt everything their kids felt. Even now, with the weight of the world and the scrutiny of the press upon them, she sensed the devastation and heartbreak he tried to keep at bay. 

May put the mug down on the table. "I guess that's why you kept your family a secret?" she said. "Avoid the whole fiasco we're currently in."

“Something like that," Laura said. "Clint's profession invited danger and we didn't want that in our personal lives. He had Fury set this place up for us. Kept us off any government records. Made us invisible to anyone who may hurt us.”

Lucky them, May thought. Her and Peter never got that. They were thrown right into the spotlight and placed in immediate danger. The public scrutinized everything Peter did, demanding his attention a boy like him didn’t need any of it. Or want it. They were known. They were threatened. They got hurt.

May sighed. “Did I do the right thing?”

She didn’t know if Laura knew the full story about Osborn’s meddling, but she wanted another mother’s opinion.

Laura stopped her busy movements, chin tilted up as she pondered. “It’s hard to ever know if we do right by our children,” she said after a moment. “We do our best and pray it helps our kids in the long run. But in this particular situation, I don’t think you could have ever stopped the pain Peter is feeling.”

“So…  I didn’t do the right thing.”

“No! No, no, no. That’s not what I meant,” Laura quickly amended. “I’m saying that there was nothing you could do to stop Peter from feeling hurt. No one faults you on what you did. You wanted to give Peter back some normalcy by keeping him out of the Avengers’ business. I would have done the same. And, honestly, I think Peter understands that too. He’s just hurt from the fact that his parents were murdered. And that pain is something you could never protect him from.

“Truthfully, I don’t think Peter is even mad at you for keeping it a secret from him,” Laura continued on, going back to cracking eggs into a frying pan. “He’s a boy who misses his parents and it hurts to miss people you love.”

May doubted it. Laura wasn’t there when Peter looked at her like she betrayed him. She didn’t watch him collapse in a fit, wailing in agony. She didn’t feel the constant rejection Peter gave her every time she tried to talk or hug him.

The backdoor swung opened, the screen creaking and groaning as it did. Clint walked in, brushing off his boots. Peter was behind him.

“Smells good,” Clint commented, coming around Laura to swipe some of her sliced applies.

Laura smacked his hand away. “No—go set the table,” she ordered and then looked over at Peter, who was undoing his laces. “Oh—Peter?”

Peter looked up.

“Grab that jug on the top shelf, please?”

Peter plucked the jug off the shelf and came back down to hand it off to Laura. But, she redirected him to the bag of oranges. “Press those for juice.”

It was the first time May heard Peter speak since she told him the truth. “Ah—come on,” he groaned. “Can’t I set the table instead?”

“Sorry, kid,” Clint remarked, setting the plates on the table. “I’m already halfway done.”

Peter mumbled, but he ripped the bag of oranges easily with his bare hands. No need for scissors. He took a knife, ready to slice one orange into two to start.

May jumped up from her seat. “I’ll help you, Peter,” she volunteered.

“That’s okay,” Peter quickly said. “I got it.”

And like that Peter kept his back to her. May slowly sunk back into her chair while the Laura and Clint looked at her with awkward and sympathetic stares. Then, Clint spoke up again.

“Hey? Pete,” he called to Peter. “Why don’t you let your aunt help you out? Make things go by faster.”

“Nah… it wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

Clint gave May an apologetic shrug, but May thanked him nonetheless for his effort. Soon breakfast was ready. Laura provided a bountiful breakfast with eggs, sausage, toast, fruit and orange juice or coffee to drink. May nibbled on some toast and fruit, keeping with her tea as everyone helped themselves. Peter ate almost everything at the table, but neither Laura nor Clint minded. They must have gotten used to not having any leftovers.

Breakfast ended as quickly as it came. Peter finished first, taking his dishes to the sink and washing them, before bounding up the stairs with claims he wanted a nap. May stayed with the adults, wondering again if she did the right thing.

The next two days, May hardly saw Peter. When she came upstairs to bed, he was already asleep (or pretending to be) and upon waking the next morning, he was gone. Out in the fields or somewhere. He avoided May and May was too worried to go and confront him. She figured space was what he needed, but for how long, she wasn’t sure.

She spent her days with Laura, helping odd projects around the house. She enjoyed Laura’s company greatly. She was refreshing. Not that May didn’t like hanging out with Pepper, but Laura’s similar background and lifestyle was something May desperately needed.

Laura entertained May with photos of Peter’s stay with the Barton family. May was amazed how incorporated Peter became in their family. She looked through the photographs, watching her boy adapt from city life to farm life through the array of photographs. All those photographs of Peter on a tractor or working on the farm explained his recent tan lines. May came across one photograph that got her rip-roaring laughter. It was a picture of Peter with blonde hair, standing next to Natasha. And… oh it did not look good at all. She asked for a copy of that photograph.

But, there were moments she saw that broke her heart. There was a framed photograph on one of the end tables by the couches. The picture contained the whole Barton family, plus Peter, who was seated center in the photograph. In front of him was a large cake that read Happy Sixteen.

May had been planning Peter’s sweet sixteen birthday for a long time. She had all these fantastic ideas and themes, and she couldn’t wait to celebrate the big birthday with her nephew. Yet, all that time and effort was wasted. Ross took her child away, along with the chance to celebrate his sweet sixteen. A birthday that she never wanted to miss.

Peter looked happy though. He fit in quite well with their little family. May couldn’t help but think that Peter deserved it. He should have had his parents, raising and loving him. He should had little brothers and sisters, tagging along with him. But, Peter was denied all of that. Because of Osborn.

Laura promised to make copies of the photographs she taken. But first, she had to pick up her children from the grandparents’ house.

“It’s going to a hurricane when we come back.”

May didn’t know what she meant by that. She lounged in the family room, reading a book while Peter was upstairs, showering off the grime and filth from working on the tractor’s engine. Near the dinner time, May heard a truck roll up the driveway and park. A gaggle of voices of different tones could be heard and May lowered her book in preparation to meet the Barton kids.

But, she was shocked back when a little girl, with two low pigtails burst through the door. Her eyes were wide as saucers, head snapping in every direction like she was searching for something. Or someone.

“ _Peter!_ ” the little girl screamed. “ _PETER_!”

An older boy followed behind her. He too scanned the family room in search until the thundering of footsteps down the staircase alerted them. Peter came to the landing, smiling wide at seeing the two kids.

“Hey guys…”

His voice was cut off as the girl shrieked and ran at him, slamming right into his chest that knocked the air out of Peter’s lungs. The boy came over too, hugging Peter as well. But, it was the girl that drew all the attention.

“Peter! Peter! Peter!” she kept going, her voice shrilled in pure delight. “You’re back! You gonna stay this time? Please? Please? Please?”

Peter laughed. “Miss you too, Lila,” he answered just as Laura came through the front door. She was carrying a three year old in her arms with a large diaper bag slung over her arms.

“Lila! Coop!” she called to them. “I told you two to bring in your bags. Now, go out and get them.”

Lila, the little girl, whined. “But Mommy…” she said. “Peter’s here.”

“And he’ll still be here when you come back,” she said. “Now—hop to!”

“Mommy…”

“Don’t argue with your mother, Lila,” Clint appeared on the stairs, smiling at his kids. “Go and get your stuff. Peter will be right here.”

The little girl whined and huffed before racing out the door to grab her belongings. Cooper followed after, but at a much more relaxed pace. Laura maneuvered around, restraining the young child in her arms as it waved wildly in Peter’s direction.

May watched her nephew’s eyes brighten. A smile widening as he strode over, taking the child from Laura’s arm with ease. “Hey…” he cooed as the child smiled and made a little shriek. “How’s my super-secret agent doing these days?”

The child babbled excitedly, most of it nonsense. Yet, Peter smiled along, listening and encouraging the nonsense by indulging in the boy's nonsensical conversation. The other two children returned, carrying their respective duffels only to drop them in the foyer on top of the shoes. Clint had to redirect them to pick up their belongings to put in their room.

Luckily, there was no whining as Peter volunteered to go up with them. Cooper had something in his room that he wanted to show Peter and Lila wanted to take Peter to her room to meet her dolls. So, all the kids raced upstairs, leaving all the adults downstairs.

May turned to Laura, who looked wiped out. “So… those are your kids?”

Laura smiled. “Yep and like I said… hurricane.”

Clint slid his arm around his wife’s waist as Laura leaned into him in one swoop. “Oh… go easy on them,” he said to Laura. “You know how much they missed him. How many times have they asked when he was going to come back?”

“Oh, I stopped counting after the first week.”

Clint and Laura shared a sweet smile before he gave her a tiny peck on the forehead. “See? Let the kids have fun for a bit.”

It was a lot for May to suddenly take in. Her perception on the famed archer kept being twisted into something new. First a wife. Then children. And now, even his children adore Peter.

“I didn’t realize Peter was so close to your kids,” May said after a moment when the adults all settled in the comfy sofas. “I mean… I never heard him say anything about them. Then again, he didn’t mention you ever having a family.”

Clint shook his head, a grin turning up his cheeks a bit. “Yeah… I didn’t know Peter would keep it a secret,” he admitted. “I respect him for doing so, but yeah our kids see him as an older brother. Coop calls him for homework help. Lila calls him way too many times. We had to actually stop her a handful of times. But he’s been keeping in touch with us. I honestly thought you knew about it.”

May shook her head. “Knew nothing about it.”

A hurried, pounding of footsteps clambered down the staircase. The Barton’s oldest, Cooper, appeared, eyes searching until they landed on his father. “Dad! Can Peter and I go to the school’s basketball game tonight?”

“There’s a game?” questioned Clint, surprised.

“Yeah! Everyone’s going,” Cooper said. “Billy, Lukas, John and I want Peter to meet them. Since you know… he’s no longer a fugitive.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but not in front of his son. “Coop—Peter’s not an attraction that you can show off,” he said. “Besides, Peter’s supposed to stay on the down-low.”

“But he’s not a fugitive anymore!” argued Cooper. “Why can’t we go?”

May twisted in her seat to look over at Cooper from a better angle. “Peter can go,” she said, approving the idea. Might help get Peter out from under his dark cloud. “As long as it doesn’t draw too much attention, he can go see a game. I’m sure he would be happy to go and meet your friends.”

That certainly got Cooper excited. He bounced on his feet and before his parents could counter-act that ruling, he darted back upstairs, calling Peter’s name.

Clint groaned. “Looks like I have to go to a game tonight, huh?”

Laura lightly patted his arm. “You enjoy those as much as you complain about them,” she remarked with a scrunched and silly face. “Just don’t buy any junk food there, okay? Grandma and Grandpa fed them dinner.”

Clint got up from the couch and went off to get ready. One by one, the living room filled again with young children and Peter, holding the youngest child’s hand as the boy pattered around the living to show Peter his favorite places to play and nap. Cooper was putt on his shoes when Lila joined him, tying up her shoelaces.

“Where are you going?” Cooper asked.

“With you,” Lila answered. “To the game.”

“No you’re not!”

“Yes I am!”

May darted a look from the kids to Laura. Even she was aware of the rising tantrum about to take place. “Kids—no fighting,” Laura warned.

“But she can’t come with us!” Cooper argued. “She doesn’t even like basketball!”

“Yes I do,” Lila crossed her arms.

Cooper gave her a sharp look. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

“It’s a game with a ball and a basket, duh!”

Cooper obnoxiously rolled his eyes. Similar to how Clint did it earlier. “Mom! Tell her she can’t go!”

Lila ran to her mother, grabbing onto Laura’s shirt. “Mommy! I want to go! I do! I do!”

“She only wants to go because Peter’s going,” Cooper complained. “She’ll talk through the entire game! She always does!”

“No I won’t!”

“Yes you will!” Cooper fired back. “Can’t it just be a guys’ night? Or something?”

“But I wanna go!” Lila whined, her eyes getting shiner and wider by the second. “I wanna go!”

The last words were screamed out, drawing everyone’s attention to the little girl. Peter scooped up the youngest child, balancing him on his hip as he approached everyone else.

“Hey, Lila, what’s up?” Peter asked, concerned and with great care of her hurt feelings. “What’s the matter?”

Lila shook her head, eyes welled with hundreds of tears. “Cooper won’t let me go because he’s being a mean butt-face!”

Cooper’s eyes went round. “Are you kidding me? Mom—”

Laura looked suddenly overwhelmed by her two oldest children. “Okay… okay, everyone settle down,” she ordered. “Stop yelling. Now—Lila, are you really going to watch the game or are you just going to talk?”

“I’m going to watch,” Lila answered, determined.

Cooper snorted. “She’s lying, Mom! She is never quiet. Ever.”

“Coop—you have to understand that she just wants to spend time with Peter,” Laura tried to reason.

Even Peter added on. “I don’t mind sitting next to her during the game,” he said. “It’s not a problem.”

Only Cooper groaned loudly at that. “Why does she always get to hang-out with him?” Cooper challenged. “I want to watch the game with Peter. And I want him to meet my friends.”

“I can do that too,” Peter offered.

“See? He’ll meet your friends and he can sit in between you and Lila,” Laura said as a compromise. “So, you can take your little sister with you.”

“No.”

More footsteps were heard and Clint returned to the living room, sporting jeans, a plain dark-green shirt and a jacket. He held socks in his hands as he walked across to the shoes. “What’s going on now?” he asked as he took a seat to put on his shoes. “Game not happening?”

Laura peevishly looked at Clint. “Lila wants to come too.”

That surprised Clint as he snapped his attention to his daughter. “But you hate sports.”

“She wants to go because Peter is going,” Cooper complained. “Dad—tell her she can’t go.”

Clint chuckled. “I’m not going to do that.”

“But Dad—”

“Cooper, if Lila wants to come, she can.”

“But she’ll just talk the entire time! And she’ll bother Peter and—”

Clint’s eyes softened to one of understanding. May watched Clint and Laura share a look before they turned to Lila. “Hey, sweetie, come here?” Clint called for his daughter.

Lila slid her feet over. Clint hoisted her up and settled her on his lap. “How about you spend some time with Mommy? You know how much she hates to be alone while all of us leave,” he said. “I bet you two will have so much more fun than us. How about that tea party you’ve been trying to host? I’m sure Mommy and May—

“Who’s that?”

Clint nudged his head in May’s direction. The little girl’s eyes found May and her face scrunched into a deep, intense scrutiny. “Who are you?”

“Lila!” gasped Laura, face flushed in extreme embarrassment. “Where are you manners?”

Peter quickly stepped in. “Sorry! That’s my bad,” he said. “I got super excited to see you guys I forgot to introduce you guys.” Peter stood beside May, changing the child’s position on his hip. “This is my aunt, May. She raised me. May? This is Cooper, Lila and this one here.” Peter hoisted the boy up a bit further on his hip, “is Nathaniel. Or Little Nat. He was named after Black Widow.”

May gave a sweet smile to the Little Nat, but the young boy only blankly stared at her. He had no reaction to May’s sudden appearance in their lives. Cooper said a little hello, but Lila remained uncertain, questioning. Almost like she truly didn’t believe her to be Peter’s relative.

“You don’t look like Peter,” she said after a moment.

Laura dropped her face in her hand and Clint flicked a finger at his daughter’s arm. “Lila—that’s no way to say hello to someone,” he said. “Your mother’s right. Where are you manners?”

Lila looked somewhat ashamed, lowering her head a bit. “Sorry,” she apologized.

“That’s okay,” May said. “I’m his aunt by marriage. Not blood. So… that’s why we don’t look a lot alike.”

“Peter spoke a lot about you,” Cooper spoke up. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

That warmed May’s heart to hear that Peter spoke of her to these kids. She wondered if Peter would ever speak to her again. So far, he still has remained silent to her.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you as well,” May returned. “I’m glad Peter has you guys. He always wanted siblings when he was younger.”

The two older children flickered their eyes to Peter. It appeared he never told them that. But, Peter didn’t act offended or upset. He was listening to Nathaniel chat away.

Clint glanced down at his watch. “All right,” he announced to the group. “How about this—Lila? You stay home with mom tonight and then tomorrow, you and Peter can do whatever you want. Okay?”

Tears filled those large, brown eyes again. “D-Daddy! I wanna go! I-I wanna _go_!”

“I know. I know,” Clint said to calm her rising shrill. “But Coop’s got a point. You don’t like basketball and you have a habit of continuously speaking when bored. Your brother and Peter want to enjoy the game. And your brother wants to spend time with Peter and his friends. So—why don’t we let the boys do their own thing and then tomorrow, you can do something you enjoy with Peter. Okay?”

Lila didn’t agree to that. She cried. Loud. A long, winding wail as she tried to beg her dad to take her with him. But it only reassure Clint that he made the right decision. Especially when she started to call Cooper names, to which Clint immediately glared at her with a single look that got her to stop.

“It’s not fair!” she whined, stomping her little feet. “I want to hang-out with Peter! I want to be with him! I want to go!”

Peter suddenly put Nat down and dropped to his knees in front of Lila. “Hey… hey, come here,” he said, and Lila ran into his arms, locked right behind his neck. “Your dad’s right. This won’t be fun for you. You hate basketball. Remember how you used to hide the ball from Coop and me?”

May watched Lila’s head bob a yes in response.

“I promise you and I can do something tomorrow,” Peter vowed to her. “You and me. No one else. How about that? We can play dolls. Or American Idol. Whatever you want.”

Lila sniffled loudly, rubbing her eyes. “Y-You promise?”

Peter smiled wide and held out his pinky. “I promise.”

The little girl wrapped her own pinky around his. A little shake, signaling the deal. “Thank you,” Peter said to Lila. “And you know what I would actually appreciate?”

Lila shook her head.

“If you could look after my aunt for me,” Peter said. “She’s new here and isn’t used to the farm life. Like I was when I first came. You remember that? I would appreciate it if you show my aunt around. Be a friend to her. Can you do that?”

Lila nodded feverishly.

Peter hugged Lila again. “Thanks, Li!” he said. “You’re the best.”

It was settled. The boys all left and while Lila continued to cry, it wasn’t a full-blown tantrum. She clung to her mother’s hand, waving at the departing truck as the boys headed off to the game. Once the truck was out of sight, they went back in to the warmth of the house. Laura scooped up Nathaniel, taking him over to the playpen to play with his blocks.

Lila went directly up to May. “You wanna see my doll collection?”

May knew Lila asked because Peter told her to, but it was nice that Lila honored the request. “I would love to!”

Lila led her upstairs to her bedroom, where she had a set of dolls on a bookshelf. She went on to introduce each doll to May. She learned most of the dolls came from Natasha Romanoff from her travels, but a few were from her parents. Lila happily showed off her favorite dolls and accessories before she revealed a small karaoke set in the corner of her room.

“Peter helped me build this,” Lila said, “because one day I’m gonna be a singer. And Peter said if I want to be good I gotta practice.”

May looked over the device. It did look like something Peter built out of scrap parts he found in dumpsters around New York. “You want to be a singer?”

Lila nodded. “Yep! I’m gonna sing at mine and Peter’s wedding.”

“What?” May cracked a smile, thrown again by Lila’s blunt statement. “You and Peter are getting married?”

Lila nodded.

“Does Peter know this?” May asked, wondering if Lila ever told him of her crush.

“Yeah! He says we have to wait until we’re older, but I’m gonna be his wife one day.”

May didn’t know what to say. It was cute that Lila had a massive crush on Peter, but she felt a little sorry for Lila. No amount of waiting was going to win Peter. He was already in love with another girl. And though Peter never said it out-loud, he knew Peter well enough to know when he was head over heels over someone. And Peter was absolutely smitten with MJ.

So, May opted to not say anything. She just smiled. “Well, I’ll be happy to have you as my niece-in-law.”

That got the little girl to smile brightly. She picked up the microphone. “You wanna sing? Peter says you can sing much better than him.”

The girl shoved the microphone in her hand. Looked like May had no choice. “Um… okay.”

And that was how May spent her night. She sang a few karaoke songs by herself and a few times with Lila. Then Lila showed off some dance moves for her and Laura, who finally got Nathaniel to fall asleep. The boys had yet to return from the game, but Laura suspected it would be another hour.

“Clint most likely took them out to this ice cream parlor after the game,” Laura said as she helped Lila into her bed. The girl was exhausted. All the emotional upheaval and then the dancing and singing, knocked her out cold.

It was just Laura and her now, drinking tea and relaxing. May glanced over at Laura, spying her tired face. “Thank you.”

Laura blinked up to her. “Oh, you’re welcome,” she said. “Sorry we don’t have any other kind of tea. I need to go to the grocery store to pick up more, but I haven’t—”

“No, no,” May shook her head. “No, I mean… thank you! For taking care of Peter and raising him alongside your family. Peter always wanted a big family. He wanted siblings, but it just wasn’t in the cards.”

Laura’s face morphed into sorrow. “Oh… I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” May promised her. “Really. I’ve known for a long time. Before we even got Peter, we knew the chances of us having kids were slim. Peter became our child and we loved him as much. But, it always saddened me to see him being the only child. I always thought he would make a great older brother.

“Now—I know he does,” May said with a bright smile. “So, again, thank you! I appreciate everything you did for Peter. Everything.”

“It was our pleasure, really,” Laura said. “Peter’s a good boy and it makes me mad to see all these bad things happen to him. It’s not fair. He’s a good kid. With a kind and generous heart. He doesn’t deserve it. Any of it.”

May nodded in agreement. Peter didn’t deserve this at all.

The boys returned in an hour as Laura predicted. And again, she predicted right when they came in with empty paper bowls and cups from a local ice cream parlor. Cooper excitedly told his mother everything! His friends were stunned that he knew Peter Parker, and they were even more impressed that Peter was with him. The game was lousy. The home team lost, but Cooper said it was the best night he had in forever.

Peter said the same. He had fun being in the bleachers, rooting for the home-team. He said it felt normal and that made May’s heart swell a little more.

It was late and everyone went off to bed. Clint set up the alarm system for the night, and warned Peter to wait for him in the morning before breaking perimeter. Which, May wasn’t quite clear what he meant.

Once May was alone with Peter, she watched her nephew’s face fall from the happy glow to the smoldering sorrow he wore in the days prior to the Barton’s kids arrival. He shunned May, ignoring her as he quickly got ready for bed, jumping onto the air mattress with his phone tight in his hand. He was texting, choosing to not speak to May once again.

May slipped underneath her covers in the bed. “Peter?”

Nothing. No sound.

May sighed. Still upset. “Good night, Peter,” she said. “I love you.”

Then she turned off the lights and the room went dark.

* * *

May didn't know what woke her up. She suddenly became groggily aware that she was looking around Peter's other bedroom, pushing back her own covers to find the blow-up bed completely empty. May's heart raced, jerking her out of the bed in one quick, fluid movement, but then she heard a soft groan and looked to the window. It was partly opened and on the other side, sat Peter.

She hurried over, throwing the window fully up. "Peter!" she gasped, scared as to why Peter decided to sit right on the roof. "What are you doing?"

Then she heard the sniffle. The sound of a wounded animal. A hurt pride.

May tentatively climbed over the window's ledge, clinging to the rooftop tiles as she awkwardly scaled down to where her nephew perched. The closer she got, the louder his sniffles could be heard. 

May cautiously twisted herself into a sitting position right beside Peter. He didn't acknowledge her appearance beside him. And she didn't acknowledge the tears streaming down his face. Only her heart acknowledged the pain.

The quietness grew deeper and May heard her own steady rhythm from within, her thoughts swirling and heart bleeding. She wanted to hug Peter close and wipe those tears away, like she used to do when he was a small boy. 

Peter was no longer that small boy. He sucked in a breath, doing his best to not show the hurt in his eyes. "S-Sorry to wake you," he apologized with a haggard breath. 

"I got up on my own," Aunt May said, brushing away any fault he might take on. It already looked gutted without feeling guilty for her sudden wakefulness. “Is everything okay?”

Peter rolled in lips into a tight line. "I, um... I-I got a text."

May raised her brows as she glanced down to the phone Peter clutched in his hands.

"It was from Ned," Peter continued as May looked right back to him. "He, um, he said... that... that..."

A choking sob hiccupped out of Peter's mouth. Her nephew dipped his head down, face shadowed by the night. 

May immediately scooted closer to her nephew, hand in the center of his back. She started to rub in circular patterns. It'll be okay, she wanted to say, but couldn't.

Peter's were blotchy, red in irritation from the tears he shed. "Mr. Osborn’s dead.”

May sucked in a sharp breath. That couldn’t be right! He was shot, but alive. Stark said he was alive! What happened? Did the surgery not go well?

Peter’s breathing became labored. His face crumbled, stress lines creviced to the center of his face as his lips pinched and eyes strained red in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. “A-And… H-Harry… he… he won’t… Ned said he’s not… not…”

His words became brittle, breaking off in between muffled cries. His face broke freely and he dropped his head, shoulders hunched as he wracked himself in grief.

“Oh Peter…” May pulled Peter to her, taking his head and resting it against her shoulder.

Peter let her, burying his face in the fabric of her pajamas. May held him tight, arms fully embraced as Peter trembled underneath her protective shelter. He cried. Over and over. There were no loud sobs or whines. Only the heaving of breaths of a wrung heart.

Not for Mr. Osborn’s death, but for the loss of life, the brokenness of a friendship and the end of innocence for Peter and his group of friends.

May carded her fingers through his hair, patting him gently as he shivered in his arms. He blubbered the rest of the story. Ned summarized the meeting with Harry went and it wasn’t good. Ned reported Harry officially cut them out of his life.

And that cut went deep into Peter. He picked his head up from her shoulder. His wide, sore eyes turned right on May. “What do I do, May? Should I call him again? Or… maybe I should go and visit him? Or—”

“Peter,” May quietly interrupted him, gently rubbing his back up and down. “It’s not something you can fix right away. Harry’s going through a difficult time. Like yourself. He needs space. He needs time. He may have said all those things to Ned and MJ, but he just lost his father. And, worse, he found out his father is a murderer. It’s not going to be an easy time for Harry in the next couple of weeks. Maybe even years.

“I know you don’t want to lose your friend,” May went on, watching her words be absorbed in by Peter. “But you have to give him time. Wait for him to come to you.”

Peter didn’t look hopeful. “What if he doesn’t? What if he hates me forever?”

“There’s nothing you can say or do to change his mind,” May said, although it ached her heart to tell him that. Peter liked Harry. Spoke highly of Harry and enjoyed his easy-going, fun personality. “It know it hurts, and maybe one day, in the near future, you and Harry will be friends again. Maybe not right away. Maybe not in a year. But, if you two were truly friends, you will be friends again.”

She hoped she sounded convincing. Deep down, May believed the two would never see each other again. Too many things happened. Too many bad associations to mend the friendship. Too much guilt. Too much shame. Too much to do anything, but to release the pain and continue on.

Yet, May didn’t have it in her heart to tell that to Peter. He needed the hope that he and Harry can be friends again.

Until then, May needed to listen to her next words carefully. “Peter—look at me.”

Her nephew raised his eyes up to her. A pleading desperation to have an answer to the madness plaguing him.

May gripped Peter’s shoulders, keeping her eyes locked on him. Never wavering. “You are not at fault for what happened to Norman Osborn,” she asserted. “Or even for what happens afterwards. Norman is—was—an adult. He made those horrible choices. He chose to be a murderer—a criminal. Not you.”

Peter rubbed his nose clean with his sleeves. “Yeah, I know,” he said, sniffling. “It’s just… I feel _responsible_!”

“You’re not responsible,” May stressed again. “You were only a boy! Still are. You did nothing. Everything that went wrong was all on Norman Osborn. _Not you_.”

“But Harry—”

It was never easy to lose a friend. Even worse when the reason for the fall-out was outside their control.

“Harry can think that, but it’s not true,” May said. “You were only five, Peter. And even now, you didn’t ask to be dragged into Norman’s delusions. You didn’t ask to be kidnapped. Hell—I’m sure Stark didn’t want to get shot. Just because bad things happen doesn’t mean it’s your fault. You’re not guilty, Peter.

“I know you take things to heart. Way too much,” May said to Peter. “I remember how broken you were when Ben died. And I know you blame yourself for it. More so now that I know you had powers back then. But again, Ben made his choice to confront an armed thief. Just like Norman made his choice to kill your parents and try to kidnap you. You didn’t make those choices and even though they affected you, you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Peter took a deep breath, pulling his knees to his chest. “I know, but it still sucks, May,” he croaked out. “It really, really sucks.”

It was hard to not cry for her nephew. To see his agonized look of a lost friendship. A friendship he enjoyed and abruptly destroyed in a single night. And May wasn’t talking about the previous night. She was talking about the night Peter’s parents died.

The moment Norman ordered their deaths was the moment that their lives all changed. It diverted Peter’s path. It brought him to her. To her and Ben’s care. To the spider-bite. To Tony Stark. To the Avengers. To Secretary Ross. To now. To this very moment on the rooftop of Hawkeye’s home.

Nothing Peter could do or say would change the situation. It wouldn’t bring the dead back to life. It wouldn’t magically wipe away memories or mend broken bonds of friendship. Nothing would change the outcome they currently faced.

“You are a good person, Peter,” May said, using her thumb to wipe away a runaway tear from Peter’s flushed cheek. “You don’t deserve any of this and I am sorry this happened to you. I really am. I want nothing more for you than for you to live the rest of your life in peace and happiness.”

She felt a tear slip from her own eyes, throat constricting. _When a child cries, a parent cries too._ Like any parent, she never want to see her child endure in any pain. If she had any powers, it would be to erase the tragedies of her nephew’s past. Rewrite him a happy beginning. He deserved it. Of all the people in the world, May believed Peter deserved a happy life. Not this Greek tragedy.

Peter quietened his cries, Tear-stained tracks ran down his cheeks, but the tears were gone. He had no more tears left to cry. “I know,” he murmured. “And I… I want to say that I’m… I’m glad I have you in my life.”

May was taken aback for a second.

But, Peter continued on. “I know these past few years haven’t been easy for you with everything that has happened to us,” he went on, cleaning up his wet face with the ends of his sleeves. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve been so resilient, taking on extra shifts and supporting me as Spider-man. Even when I was younger, you and Uncle Ben took me in, raised me as your own son and everything. Loved me like I was your son.

“I get why you kept this thing a secret,” Peter finally said. “And, I’m sorry that I got angry with you and I don’t—”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Peter blinked. “Of course I do! I—”

“Peter?” May interrupted him again, shaking her head slowly to reiterate her message. “You never have to apologize to me about how you feel. You had the right to be mad at me. You had the right to be hurt. I understand. And yes, I thought I was doing the right thing keeping it away from you, so you could live with some normalcy after everything, but it wasn’t right of me to hide the truth about your parents. They were your mother and father, and they loved you so much. It’s not fair what happened to you and your parents. You should have been raised by them.”

Peter’s eyes shined again. “… but then I wouldn’t have you as my mom.”

May’s throat burned and constricted. Heart plunged hearing Peter call her ‘mom’. He never outright said that to her. Nor did she outright call him ‘son’. But, it always felt like that. She looked at Peter and saw her child. Her son. And she loved him more than anything in the world. Including Ben Parker.

May opened her arms again and Peter fell right in them. Both holding each other. Both silently and lovingly crying as they squeezed each other tighter, knowing that the other was their anchor. Keeping them grounded with promises that tomorrow and the day after tomorrow would be better.

Things would get better.

They had each other.


End file.
